


The Modern Eris

by SnailWrites (SymbioteSpideypool)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Body Horror, DIY Surgery, Dark, Fake/Pretend Mail Order Bride, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Frankenstein AU, Graphic Description, Humor, Murder, Other, Surgery, but not zombies, human parts, modern day frankenstein, not a sexual or romanitc relationship, reanimated corpses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:36:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7903351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SymbioteSpideypool/pseuds/SnailWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has a skeleton in his closet, and a reanimated corpse in his basement. Now that he's created life, what is he supposed to do with an undocumented man that shouldn't exist living in his basement while his brother and the whole of Scotland Yard are hovering over him? Obviously this man is his mail order bride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“Please.”

Hands gripped tighter, purpling yellowed skin and shortening the already whispered words.

“Please,” the man on the ground whispered, scrabbling at the fingers around his neck. His short life slipping away.

He stared into the eyes of the man above him and laughed hysterically, choking out, “Please, God.” 

The man above him offered no reply. He just held tighter to the dying man’s neck and silently cried as he stared back.

The dying man slowed and his limbs sank into the dirt. It was as though the silent woods around them had let out a sigh of relief. 

Sherlock kept his hands there for a moment longer, knuckles white. Another tear landed on the face of the dead man, and he let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered back, too late. “I’m so sorry.”

He got up and stretched his cramped hands. He turned from the corpse and left him there, too shaken to even give the man a proper burial. It was over. It was finally over, and he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.


	2. He's Perfect

Sherlock sat at the dining room table in his kitchen, staring at his latest project and absentmindedly sipping on his coffee.

Dust motes flitted through the small bits of sunshine that managed to struggle past the heavy curtains. Every available surface, including the floor, was stacked high with odds and ends. A haphazard clean, as long as one knows what to look for.

His bloodshot eyes stared into the pinkish-grey mass over the edge of his mug. A brain observing a brain. The most fascinating and complex part of the human body. Each more incredibly frustrating than the last. How poetic.

An insistent knocking at the door drew Sherlock back to the present, but he ignored it, still somewhat preoccupied.

The knocking grew more insistent. “Detective Inspector Lestrade,” his voice was muffled through the wood. “Open up Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed and placed his mug on the wood. He raised his voice slightly, “I’m not here at the moment. Can I take a message?”

There was a beat of silence, most likely Lestrade taking a second to pray for patience. “Yeah. Yeah, you do that. You tell him that either he opens this door right now, or I call Anderson and everyone else over for another drug bust!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slid from his perch, taking time to wrap his robe tighter around his body before starting towards the door. The blue fabric trailed behind him, sweeping up the floor and several odds and ends that were scattered on it. 

The lock clicked open and Lestrade strode in, already glowering at Sherlock. He turned and shut the door behind him before he started talking. 

“I have been trying to reach you all morning. I’ve tried your house phone, your cell phone, and every landline in this whole damn apartment building.” He walked around Sherlock, over to the landline on the side table and plugged it back in angrily.

Sherlock walked around him and flopped down on the loveseat; spilling papers, books and several vertebrae across the floor. He stared up at the ceiling as Lestrade paced nearby.

“I don’t know why I even bothered coming down here to check on you. I thought, oh maybe this time someone actually cut their landline. Maybe he’s actually in trouble, but no. You cut it yourself so you could sit here and do as you please. You selfish bastard. You’ve been asking for something to do for two weeks straight and when something finally comes up you disappear. I’m surprised your brother didn’t send me a note with an address and a ‘take care of it will you’ like he did last time. Do you want this to be like last time? Is this like last time?” He stood over Sherlock, arms crossed and expectant. 

Sherlock continued to stare at the popcorn ceiling. Lestrade was worried, and when he got worried he tended to shout. “No, I can assure you the worst thing I have touched today is a nicotine patch. Go ahead and call my keeper if you’d like. He’ll tell you the same.”

Lestrade looked at him, but couldn’t make eye contact with Sherlock avoiding his face. “I have half a mind to.” Lestrade reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded manila envelope, tossing it onto Sherlock’s chest. “Well, if you decide to rejoin the world of the living, I could use you for this one.”

Sherlock didn’t move to pick it up, didn’t even flinch when it landed on him. Lestrade turned to leave, and caught sight of the kitchen.

“My God!” he exclaimed, walking forward slowly. “Oh, God,” he whispered this time, hand coming to cover his mouth.

Across the kitchen table was lying, spread eagle, a man stripped of skin, muscle, organs, bone and life. All that was left was the nervous system and the veins. The whole thing was meticulously arranged and pinned to the table. The brain was propped up on an upturned bowl, the veins on tacks and pins, and the spinal cord on a series of teacups and spoons. The heart was held up by a carefully balanced tripod of forks. A chalk outline detailed the image of the body, where the skin would have stretched. Smudged notes were written all throughout and pictures of organs hung from the ceiling on strands of twine, like some sick carousel.

Lestrade tried to breathe. Sherlock smiled as he watched the questions fly around in Lestrade’s head. Had he finally done it? Had he finally snapped and killed some poor bloke? Suddenly drugs were far less important than they had been three seconds ago.

“Wrong,” said Sherlock.

“Wh… Beg pardon?” Lestrade asked.

“You think I killed someone. You’re wrong. It is a person, but I bought him, from a museum in Germany. They ordered one too many, and it gave the night guard the chills. Amazing what you can find online these days for just under three grand.”

Lestrade swallowed slowly, “You bought a dead person and had him shipped over from Germany.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, “I named him Leslie. I think it suits him.”

“Where’s the rest of Leslie, then?” Lestrade asked, his voice pitching.

Sherlock waved his hand vaguely, “Oh, who knows. This one only came with the vascular and nervous systems.”

Lestrade stared at the body again, “And the eyes?”

Sherlock smiled slightly. The eyes sat just below the brain, each in a porcelain egg cup. “Those were a gift.”

He nodded to himself, “Right,” Lestrade decided to put ‘Leslie’ very low on the list of things he could be worrying about at the moment. “I’m off. You have my number.” He walked out the door but stopped before closing the door. “Don’t forget to fix the phones,” he said over his shoulder as he left.

Sherlock opened his eyes when he heard the front door close. He grabbed the envelope and sat up, cross-legged, on the couch. If there hadn’t been a murder then Mycroft would have sent Lestrade a search warrant, just to make sure he wasn’t rotting away in the coat closet or something similar. Nosey prick.

He wasn’t curious, just bored. And stuck. Very stuck. It wasn’t that he couldn’t solve this particular puzzle. It was just unfortunate how difficult it was to get results when supplies were so… limited.

He pulled out the first picture in the envelope and grinned. Maybe today would be the day.

Sherlock ran around the room, looking for his clothes and glancing over the other papers Lestrade had given him. The picture fluttered to the floor as he ran out the door, shrugging on his trench coat. It was a grisly scene. A young man lay dead on a tiled floor, his body wet and the blood pouring out of his neck swirled around him in a crimson pool. He was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie it's going to get gross. If there's anything you want a warning for please ask. I'll be more than happy to do so.


	3. If I Only Had a Heart

Molly looked up from her paperwork when Sherlock came in and smiled. “Hello, Sherlock. I’ve got something for you.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen the file. Where is he?” Sherlock brushed past her and started reading the tags on cadavers nearby. 

Molly stood up and cleared her throat, “The victim is over there,” she pointed to the far side of the room. 

Sherlock rushed over to the cadaver she had pointed out and threw back the sheet, only to be met with a neat row of stitches over the chest. He made a noise that was distinctly upset.

“And the heart is over here,” Molly put her hand on a small red cooler on the counter next to her paperwork. “I thought you might be interested, so I put it aside.”

Sherlock walked back towards her and put his hands on her shoulders, “Molly Hooper, you’ve done it again.” He released her to open the cooler and peer inside.

Molly laughed, “Well, you know since you were looking for one. I thought I’d put it on ice for when you got here.”

Sherlock shut the lid with a snap. “And why did you presume I was coming?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly.

“Because I didn’t tell the Detective Inspector how the victim died, and he was looking for an excuse to call you anyways.”

“And how do you think this man died,” Sherlock asked, turning to face her.

“Ice dagger,” she put her hand on her neck and mimed blood spurting. “The heat melted the weapon and the victim bleed out.”

Sherlock look at her a moment, face blank. “Tell Lestrade to arrest the one with a canister of either soup or coffee,” Sherlock said before he grabbed the cooler, turned on his heel and left.

She started to wave, “Okay, I’ll do that. Good luck with your experiment, Sherlock!” Molly put her hand down awkwardly. He was already gone.

 

Sherlock’s brain was absolutely buzzing as he made his way home. This was it. This was the last piece of the puzzle. He could barely sit still through the cab ride home. He threw some money at the driver, enough to pay for his fare and possibly more, and practically ran to the door. He waited until the driver had left and then he listened. No footsteps. Ms. Hudson was in the kitchen either making tea or cleaning dishes, but the halls were clear. Sherlock glanced at his watch, tea then. 

He pushed slowly on the door, pausing every few seconds to listen again, but no one came. Eventually Sherlock made it inside and shut the door behind him. Waltzing around every squeaky floorboard, he made his way down to the basement. He was careful not to disturb the dust too much as he pulled out a thin silver key and opened the door a crack. No one had remembered this room in centuries, and he had stolen the only key from Ms. Hudson. Not that she would ever know. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him, locking it securely.

He felt for the light switch in the pitch black room. His fingers caught it and the room slowly came alive, lights sputtering to life and humming in their own dim glow. This room was neater than his apartment, but only slightly. It just wouldn’t do to have bodily fluids splattered on important documents. Books and papers were stacked against the walls, but every other available surface was covered in petri dishes, jars and scribbled writings. Sherlock walked past an unlabeled row of jars. They were filled with pieces and parts, odds and ends, toes and kidneys floating in sickly yellow fluids.

Balancing the cooler precariously between two microscopes, he went to work. He gathered several jars with different sizes and lengths of veins, popping off the lids and picking out possible fits. It had to be perfect. Peering closely at a diagram of the human heart that hung over one of the workbenches, Sherlock scribbled some notes on it, murmuring to himself. Once he was satisfied with that, he jumped up and ran to a wall to unbury his cart. He meticulously wiped it down and placed several sterilized tools on top along with various other materials such as the veins. Sherlock snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves and opened the cooler. He pulled out the almost frozen heart. It was yellow with fat and streaked with black congealing blood. Quickly he placed it in a cold bath and ran tubes through the openings. He listed them off as he carefully filled them; superior vena cava, brachiocephalic trunk, left common carotid artery, left subclavian artery, pulmonary veins, pulmonary artery, inferior vena cava.

He let go of the heart and flicked on a switch the fluid pumped into the heart and out. Right atrium to right ventricle. Left atrium left ventricle. The tubes turned black and then red as they pumped out the remaining blood and replaced it with clear fluid. Sherlock sat motionless, watching the heart beat with the flow of the pump for almost an hour before he was satisfied.

He turned off the pump and carefully removed the tubes from the heart, wary of damaging it. He placed the heart, still leaking the clear liquid, into a bowl on his cart and pushed it towards the odd table in the center of the room.

This table was deep set and covered in a single white sheet, splattered with blood and other such things. He lifted the sheet and smiled. Underneath laid the prone form of a man, still and lifeless. His body was riddled in scars and stitches, a careful patchwork person. The two flaps of skin that made up his chest were peeled back and pinned to the table. His ribcage was intact, strange seams sealing together previous fractures and breaks. His organs were all at odd angles, leaving a perfect pathway to the empty space reserved for a heart. 

Sherlock checked the generator, his breath fogging the closer he got to the table. After he was done checking everything over a third time he pulled up a stool and set to work. He picked up the first vein and began stitching. Then another. Then another. There was a different needle for every procedure. Stitching together veins, arteries, connections to the heart. It took hours of slow meticulous sutures and nearly microscopic lenses to see what he was doing. One mistake could ruin years of work.

The last thread was cut and Sherlock moved the other organs into place, rearranging the lungs and bones and veins, careful to never leave behind anything that wouldn’t eventually dissolve when this worked. And it would work. This time it would work.

The chest was carefully stitched back together before Sherlock checked all his other seams. Satisfied with his work, he began rolling over at least a dozen IV stands, each with either blood or some other fluid. Each needle slid into a precise location. Vein in the arm, artery in the neck, bone in the leg. Each one had a place and position. Once they were all set, Sherlock dug out a massive plastic lid that settled over the sunken table and the body, holes in the sides preventing the IV tubes from pinching. He checked it another three times and then sat back to wait.

For nearly two hours Sherlock watched the temperatures regulate throughout the body, made sure the IV drips were replaced as they ran out. He removed the lid and used a thermometer to read the temperature of the body, checking every available surface from head to toe. It had to be evenly distributed or the circulatory system could become blocked. Satisfied, he kicked the lid towards a wall and pulled down a power strip of hairdryers from one of the higher shelves. He plugged it in and started setting up the hairdryers around the body, on hooks hanging from the ceiling. 

He hovered over the body as he watched the numbers slowly crawl upwards. He changed another IV drip. The purple of overworked veins beneath the skin could be seen on the body’s legs and arms, blood sluggishly crawling through. He checked the temperature again and added a saline drip. 

This was it. Sherlock flicked a switch and watched in morbid fascination as the body twitched, muscles spasming with each electric shock. So very close. He strapped a transmitter on the body’s chest and a receiver on the wrist. The heart monitor pulsed with each shock, beeping and shrieking with each surge of energy. Sherlock tipped back the head and fed a tube to the lungs. The chest cavity began to rise and fall. The corpse almost looked alive.

He inserted a catheter into the penis, threading it down into the bladder. He would know the kidneys were working when he had to start changing the catheter.

For three days Sherlock kept his vigil, watching and waiting, replacing bags less and less often. Waiting for just the right moment.

The heart monitor made an irregular noise and Sherlock jumped up, slamming his hand on the switch before another shock could be administered. He closed his eyes and swallowed.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

There it was. Sherlock grinned like a maniac and laughed. Almost falling off his seat, he stumbled away from the table and dug around for a stethoscope. Finding one he ran back, listening to the newly fluttering heartbeat in what had just ten seconds ago been a dead man. His cheeks hurt and his legs hardly worked as they should, but none of that mattered. All he could hear was that heartbeat, slowly getting stronger. His fingers trembled with exhaustion and he took off the stethoscope and put his own hand in its place. He could feel it now.

“Hello, John,” he breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's aliiiive! Ha ha, no. Not yet. His heart may be pumping, but the lungs still need a ventilator and there's no brain activity to speak of. It's gonna take a while before John's actually up.


	4. I Swear to High I'm Not God

After John’s condition had stabilized and Sherlock felt confident enough that his body would be able to survive by the grace of several intensive machines, Sherlock slipped back upstairs and immediately passed out on the couch.

Several hours later an insistent ringing woke him up. Sherlock groaned and flipped over on the couch, trying to block out the sound, but it was no use. He gave up and blearily looked around for the source. It took longer than he would have cared to admit, but he eventually found it under the couch after rolling off the edge by accident.

He closed his eyes and answered it sleepily, “Hello?”

“Oh, good. You’re alive.”

“Oh, God. You’re alive,” Sherlock snipped.

Mycroft sighed, “I’ve been calling every five hours on the off chance that you might decide to pick up your phone and confirm whether or not you’re still in the country.”

“Yes.”

“London?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a good thing you decided to pick up. I was ten hours away from allowing Scotland Yard to raid your flat, and they wouldn’t have gone easy on Leslie.”

Sherlock grunted, “I’d get a new one.”

“Do I need to send an ambulance your way, or are you done?” Mycroft asked.

“As I told Lestrade yesterday the strongest thing I’ve taken is a nicotine patch,” Sherlock rubbed at his temples and rolled to face away from the harsh light coming in through the windows.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade visited you four days ago. I repeat. Do I need to send an ambulance your way,” Mycroft demanded rather than asked.

Sherlock hummed and checked his watch. “Doesn’t time just fly when you’re having fun?” He paused and glanced around his flat for the first time, finally realizing. “You sent someone in here!” he accused.

“I needed something to go off of.”

Sherlock sat up. “And did you get it?” he asked angrily.

“No, but as I have said before don’t give me a reason to look.”

“I would have thought you smart enough to never need a look.”

Mycroft sighed, “Just promise me-“

Sherlock cut him off, snapping, “I always do.” He ended the call, violently pushing the button and flopping back down on the floor.

His stomach roared to life and suddenly Sherlock remembered why he had come up here, and what he had left. He leaped to his feet, and immediately crumpled to the floor, falling to his hands and knees. He waited until the black spots faded from his vision and the ringing in his ears had gone away before trying to stand again on shaky, unused legs.

He made it to the kitchen and checked over Leslie. Fortunately, he was untouched. The fridge; however, was devoid of edible food. He reached far into the back and found half a loaf of only slightly mouldy bread and took it out. Digging through the cabinets, he also found a can of beans that hadn’t expired yet and took that as well.

Pulling a knife off of the stack of unwashed dishes in the sink, he began scraping the mould off of and slicing his bread. Satisfied, he cleared a small space on the counter and made himself something to eat for the first time in, apparently, four days.

Ms. Hudson must have heard him moving about because she was knocking on his door by the time he had finally opened his can of beans using a large rock and a metal spoon. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he actually owned a can opener.

On his way back, Sherlock took a plate of danishes he had convinced Ms. Hudson to share with him and his phone, making sure to stomp on his way down the stairs. Just to be sure.

“Are you going out again, Sherlock?” Ms. Hudson asked from her shop, not bothering to poke her head out.

“Sorry, but I don’t have time to chat, Ms. Hudson. I’m afraid I’m very busy,” Sherlock quickly replied and opened and shut the front door without leaving. He snuck down to the basement before anyone could see him and locked himself inside.

Sherlock went about checking all the machines hooked up to John. He took the man’s pulse and changed out the saline bag full of nutrients.

Sherlock picked up a sterilized needle from the metal cart and turned John’s arm over carefully. The needle slid under the skin and into a vein. Sherlock pulled back on the plunger and watched the red liquid flood the syringe. “Let’s see how you’ve been getting on without me, John.”

Sherlock moved over to the desk with two microscopes and carefully removed the precariously balanced stack of materials that had been placed on top of them. Sherlock dug some vials out from underneath the table as well, unstopping them to place a few drops of blood in each. With a handful of vials, he walked around the table and opened the fridge there, pulling out a rack half full of more vials, each nearly full of oddly colored fluids. He kicked the minifridge door shut behind him and started sorting his vials.

Several drops of something went into a few of the tubes. He dropped the last of the blood on a few glass slides and sat down at the microscopes, flicking on the lights. He smiled, “Growing your own blood cells already John? I’m impressed. I may have to switch you to solid foods soon if you keep that up.”

Sherlock stood and turned to John, carefully moving his limbs just enough to check for bruising. Bruising could mean bursting veins. “But you’ve got to start breathing on your own first. I can’t put in a tube without taking one out, you know.” Not a blemish on him, besides the obvious mass of scars and sutures.

Sherlock snapped on a clean par of latex gloves and started cutting open the seam just under John’s ribcage. He peeled back the skin and held it there for a moment, watching organs and viscera pulsate rhythmically. He turned his attention to the diaphragm. It didn’t move in time with the mechanical ventilation system, but it couldn’t stay that way forever. Sherlock didn’t want to risk the airways just to keep the tubes in. The sooner he got the diaphragm working the better chance John’s respiratory system had of surviving.

Orienting himself inside of John’s chest, Sherlock attached four nodes around the phrenic nerves, each with a careful hand and tweezers. He’d gotten the best black market breathing pacemaker dirty money could buy. After what happened with the last one, he wasn’t willing to take any chances. He closed the skin and inserted the last electrode just under the skin, above where he had implanted the others. The wires fed out through the stitching like a vine creeping through the cracks in a brick wall. Sherlock held his breath and removed the ventilator, immediately turning on the newly connected pacemaker.

For a dreadful half second nothing happened, and then John’s body twitched and his chest started to rise and fall again. Sherlock let out his breath in a quiet laugh. It worked.

There was little time to be spent on celebrating if John was going to work properly soon. Sherlock threw away his gloves and stuffed a danish in his mouth. He picked up one of the vials of blood, one he hadn’t added anything to, and uncorked it. He swirled it and watched as it slowly congealed. Forty-five seconds. Slow, but an improvement nonetheless. That, and by what chemicals he could isolate in the blood, the liver seemed to be doing its job, just sluggishly.

Hopefully as the body woke up, it would start processing things more easily. Sherlock smiled fondly at his project. Tomorrow he would start John on foods. Something nutrient rich, liquid and shoved down a tube to his stomach, but real food nonetheless.

He sat down on the floor and leaned back against the books stacked on one side of the room. His long legs splayed out in front of him as he munched thoughtfully on a danish. Closing his eyes Sherlock let his mind wander.

What kind of person had John Watson been? All he had to go on was a few army reports and a brief mention in the paper. He was a doctor. An army doctor. Served in Afghanistan for three years before being shot in the shoulder. He was rushed back to London for medical treatment, but died of blood loss before anything could be done. That’s where Sherlock got ahold of him. But he didn’t have anything else to go off of. 

A light buzzing roused Sherlock from his meditative state. Pulling out the phone, Sherlock read the message and sneered. It was from Mycroft.

_Detective Inspector Lestrade will be checking in with you tomorrow to administer a drug test. If you are absent he is allowed to arrest you on sight. Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be, brother dear._

Sherlock eyed the minifridge. There was enough morphine in there to kill an elephant and a small zebra. Might as well give Mycroft something to be angry about.

He licked his lips. 

The morphine was for when John woke up. It would help with the pain, it was easy to get, and most importantly it would keep John from running.

The morphine was for John.

Sherlock almost jumped when he felt something on his arm. He looked down and realized he had been rubbing the four day old nicotine patches on his arm.

He slowly peeled them all off and stuck them one by one on the fridge. Pulling two fresh patches out of his pocket, Sherlock stuck them on his arm. His head hit the stack of books behind him, and he let out a sigh.

For John.


	5. Just Five Minutes

Lestrade’s phone was going off every few minutes, merrily shrieking in the otherwise quiet morning. He groaned and rolled over in bed, trying to savor his last few seconds of blissful morning drowsiness before his phone rang again.

A long, low groan spilled out of his mouth as he sat up in bed. He licked his dry lips and swallowed, grimacing at the morning breath flavor. The ringtone on his phone went off again and he fumbled to reach it without standing up. His hand knocked the phone to the floor instead and Lestrade took a moment to stare at it mournfully from the bed. It rang again and he got out with a longsuffering sigh.

Sitting down on the floor, he picked up his phone. He had eight new messages; one from Donovan, three from the office, and four from Anderson. Lestrade put his phone back down for a moment and stared at his knees. His knees were chapped. Perhaps he should pick up lotion on the way home today. Something that smelled like honey.

He picked up the phone again and listened to the messages one by one. He could already feel the headache coming on. It was Sherlock alright, but this time it wasn’t actually something he had done. Well, besides the usual.

Lestrade got up to get dressed and get ready for work. Maybe he should take a vacation, maybe to the Caribbean. Somewhere warm with beautiful beaches, and absolutely no Holmes brothers to get caught between.

 

Lestrade walked into his office with a double shot tall latte and was able to sit down for approximately three seconds before Anderson and a newbie walked in arguing. 

Lestrade cleared his throat and stared them both into silence. He put down his coffee and leaned back in his chair, hands placed on the armrest.

“Anderson, from what I understand you illegally subjected a suspect, one being held with no evidence or crime, to a drug test against his will,” Lestrade looked at him meaningfully.  
Anderson’s mouth snapped shut.

“We’ll discuss this later, go home.”

Anderson looked like he wanted to argue, but thought better of it at the last second and stormed out.

Lestrade brought a hand to his temple and rubbed a sore spot. “Officer Poole, where is your partner?” he asked wearily.

“She’s filling out the arrest forms, Sir,” said Officer Poole, who was trying too hard to stand up straight and was leaning a bit to the left instead.

Lestrade pushed a button on his desk phone and spoke into the intercom, “Officer Uthman to my office. Officer Uthman to my Office.”

Lestrade propped his head up on the desk and watched Officer Poole shuffle awkwardly as they both waited. He had to hide a smirk when the poor kid jumped at the sound of knocking.

“Come in,” said Lestrade.

Officer Uthman took her place next to her partner with her shoulders squared.

Lestrade looked at the two of them. They were both in the last phase of the training program, and a mistake like this could mean the end of their careers. They had a right to be nervous.

“Can either of you tell me how this situation could have been avoided?” he asked them.

 

Officer Uthman spoke up, looking straight ahead, “We failed to maintain a calm composure throughout our interaction with Mr. Holmes which aggravated tensions and led to misunderstandings when communicating.”

“And we should not have broken protocol just because a senior officer said he had special permission to administer a drug test. Instead we should h-have, uh…” Officer Poole tripped on a stutter.

Officer Uthman picked up, “We should have contacted our superiors and allowed them to make the decision, as Anderson was part of the forensics team and therefore not in a position to make the choice for us.”

At least they weren’t stupid. They knew they had been used.

He nodded slightly, “Very good. I will be taking into consideration Anderson’s actions when deciding how this will affect your training status, as well as the fact that Sherlock is a bit of a hot button issue recently.” He watched the two of them closely, “You’re not fired if that’s what you were waiting to hear.”

They both visibly relaxed.

“Clock out. Go home. I’ll have something for you tomorrow. Dismissed.” Lestrade waved them away.

They were gone before he could blink. He looked at his empty coffee cup mournfully. Maybe by some miracle he’d get off early enough to have a few drinks tonight.

He sighed and stood up. Time to see what this mess was all about.


	6. That's Probably Illegal

Lestrade turned the corner as Sherlock was letting himself out of his cell. He sighed and took a deep breath.

“Sherlock,” he said.

Sherlock locked the empty cell behind him and turned around. “Lestrade.”

“Weren’t running off without saying hello first, were you?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock sniffed. “Quite the opposite. I was in the process of hunting you down to tell you exactly how incompetent your trainees are.” He dropped an opened pair of handcuffs on the floor to make his point.

“They are in training, and you’re not exactly a walk in the park. In their defense Mycroft has been squeezing us lately. He’s convinced you’re on some sort of drug…binge…thing.” Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. He hated being the middleman here.

Sherlock stiffened. “He’s got what he wants now, hasn’t he?” he sneered. “Anderson was more than happy to take what he wanted. Did brother dear give you a fat check for that?”

Lestrade winced slightly and shoved his hands in his pockets. “That was unsanctioned. He bluffed his way through and anything he did find has to be thrown out because-“

“I did not consent to a blood sample,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Yes,” agreed Lestrade, “And he did not get the permission of a senior officer, in which case he would not have been the one to take the sample.” Lestrade paused. “Anderson acted alone. I wanted to hear your side of the story.”

Sherlock pulled out the nearest chair and draped himself over it. “Playing good cop now, are you?”

Lestrade chuckled, “I’ve got ten minutes worth of patience left for today.”

Sherlock hummed and started talking.

Lestrade ended up laughing through most of the story. It was a bit sad really. Sherlock had decided to get his groceries all at once instead of eating out or forgetting to get anything at all. He wanted to try the health fad route to see if he could chug a smoothie of nutrients in the morning and be fine for the rest of the day. Since Mycroft had been requesting more reports on Sherlock, the trainees that had seen him called in and said they had seen Sherlock with three bags of kale and nutritional supplements. Someone on the radio had suggested that he was synthesizing drugs using kale and vitamins. 

Sherlock had to wait for Lestrade to stop laughing at that point. 

He sniffed, “As if anything good could come from kale.”

Sherlock Holmes was an actual child, and he’d bet a few thousand that Mycroft would say the exact same thing about kale if asked.

Once Lestrade had recovered Sherlock continued. “They stopped me and went through the steps, everything done by the book.”

“But?” Lestrade asked.

“I didn’t want to sit around and wait while they made a few calls just to be sure there weren’t any drugs made from kale, so I was arrested for resisting an officer. And then for resisting arrest. And then for verbally assaulting an officer. And then for-“

Lestrade held up a hand, cutting him off. “Before you make me regret this, I’d like to make a deal.”

Sherlock smiled and leaned forward, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “A deal with the devil?”

“May as well be. I don’t like what Mycroft is doing to my department, and I don’t like babysitting you. You don’t like the invasion of privacy, and obviously you’re not taking anything, right now.”

“How do you know that?”

“I can deduct from the way my phone has been ringing for five minutes straight that Anderson got the lab results pushed through and didn’t find anything, otherwise he’d be here shoving it in my face.”

Sherlock smiled, but stayed passive, “So what do you propose we do?”

“I want to send your lab results to Mycroft. I want you to text me once a day just to say what you’re working on. And I want you to let this incident slide,” Lestrade said calmly.

Sherlock thought it over. “Sometimes, Lestrade, you surprise me. Make it once a week and you’ve got a deal.”

Lestrade pulled a face but took Sherlock’s outstretched hand, “Fine but If you don’t answer within two days when I call you I get to search your flat.”

“Now which one of us is the devil?”

“Get out of here already. You’re a bad influence on the criminals.”

Lestrade arranged for a police vehicle to take Sherlock and his massive grocery bags home, as a sort of compensation, he assumed.

Sherlock snuck downstairs and closed the door behind him with a sigh.

“John, I brought you lunch,” he started talking as he got out the veggies and went to work pureeing just about everything he had bought.

“Sorry it took so long. I was…delayed. On the bright side Mycroft won’t be breathing down my neck for a while, and I don’t have to take that dug test he wanted.”

He slowly coaxed a gastronomy tube down John’s throat and towards his stomach. Once the machines were set up he poured exactly half a cup of nutrient rich kale mush down the tube. He slid a bed pan under John and washed his hands.

Sherlock looked fondly down at his creation and placed his gloved hand on John’s steadily rising and falling chest. The heartbeat thrummed beneath his fingers. Any day now.


	7. The Miracle of Birth

Sherlock actually hummed as he drew John’s blood and checked on his vitals and organs. Today was the day. Everything checked out. His body was functioning normally, nerves were working, brain activity was up. This was it!

Sherlock finished his last few tests and checked all of John’s monitors and stitches one last time. He hooked up John to a slow morphine drip and filled a needle with liquid amantadine. He slid the needle into a vein and watched it disappear into John’s bloodstream. John now had sixteen weeks to wake up before he would be dismissed as a failure. Sherlock had high hopes. John had been showing increased signs of brain activity, even reaching a sort of comatose state. This had to work.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed from where it was plugged into the wall. Sherlock sighed and got up to answer it. Lestrade had left him a message, “Escaped murderer. I can’t leave so call Donovan.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. They never pat down men’s hair when they’re arrested. Sherlock keeps several bobby pins in his hair at all times for exactly that reason. Really after he’d escaped so many times you’d think they would have learned.

Sherlock looked back at John reluctantly. He’d rather wait here for the several weeks it would take to reach the next stage, but he should be fine for now. John certainly wasn’t going anywhere, and this looked fun. A killer on the run. 

Sherlock threw on his coat and slipped out of the apartment building. His fingers were already dialing Donovan and she wasn’t going to be happy to hear from him.

~~~

Back in the basement John’s eyes moved back and forth under his eyelids. His breathing sped up slightly and his lips twitched. Four weeks ahead of schedule, John was waking up.

His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked. There was no difference whether or not he opened his eyes. It was dark. His breath hitched as awareness came crashing down on him like a flood of razors. He hurt.

John twitched, clenching his jaw and his fists, every muscle in his body screaming and tightening at once. John felt the pain of being taken apart and put back together. He felt the pull of every stitch and the pain of mostly unused muscles begging for him to stop trying.

Eventually the morphine really kicked in and John felt…not pain. He felt. He swallowed, and what a strange sensation that was. His awareness spread sleepily to his neck, his chest, his arms and legs and his hands and feet. It was slow going, but he got one hand to move as he wanted, realizing he could feel with it. He felt across his stomach, the stitches catching his fingers. His hand moved up and found an object. It felt hard and cold and wrong, so he pulled at it until it came off. That made a noise.

John was panicking now. There was a noise and now he had two hands and there were hard things all over and sometimes they hurt when he pulled them out.

He couldn’t find the noise, so his hands kept looking, traveling up his arms and to his neck, and then his face. He found more hard things. The large one in his mouth, when he pulled on it, threw his whole world on a spin. He gagged and choked and the noise was louder now. It was wrong. Very wrong. He pulled harder, trying desperately to breath. He pulled and pulled until he was lying on his side, retching and gasping for air. Once the dark stopped spinning, he realized he had moved, and that moving hurt. 

His pain was dulled, so he rolled back and explored the rest of his body, tugging at the various hard things he found as he went. He left the one on his side alone since he couldn’t figure out what the tape was. The one under his stomach was the worst. He tugged on it and a wave of nausea hit him again, but he wanted it out. He pulled this time and vomited over himself. He felt wet and wrong and hurt, but it was gone.

John found his way to the side of the table and somehow maneuvered himself over the edge, landing with a sickening slap against the hard floor.

He started dry heaving, but eventually that faded. He tried moving, but one of his arms wasn’t working like he wanted, so he ignored it and tried rolling a little. He didn’t get far before a large something blocked his path. 

Over the course of several hours John felt his way around the tables and into a corner, by a pile of books. John was forced to stop when the morphine began to wear off. He was violently shivering and the pain was too much to handle. Finally, he blacked out.


	8. Ahead of Schedule

Sherlock sighed as he opened up his flat and slumped face first into the couch. What a disappointing night. It had started off so well. The escaped murderer was making a break for Estonia, where he had a contact that would take him, presumably, to another continent. 

Sherlock had discovered that he had a daughter in France, and correctly assumed he would have gone to see her next if he was looking to flee Europe. He had taken a private jet to France just to find the man had already been arrested by French police after he broke into his daughter’s house, and was already being shipped back to London to await a trial.

The whole thing had been a complete waste of time and energy and he hadn’t even needed to be there. He had even discovered the location of the safe house in Estonia so they could cut him off. What kind of respectable criminal couldn’t even stay out of jail for a full twenty four hours after escaping? 

At least he had John to look forward to, and if he had gone all the way to Estonia then he wouldn’t have been able to give John his next dose of amantadine. Speaking of John.

Sherlock sat up and pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time. He had to give John another dose in three hours, and John hadn’t been fed in over twelve.

Sherlock dragged himself up, not even bothering to take off his coat. He snuck down to the basement with practiced ease and shut the door behind him. He reached for the light switch and flicked it on, but only part of the string of lights came on. The rest had been ripped down. Then he noticed the irregular beeps and alarms. Sherlock’s blood froze.

Someone had been in here. He scrambled for his phone and turned on the flashlight, shining it at the table in the center of the room. He forgot to breathe for a moment. John was gone.

Worst case scenarios flashed through his mind. There were no police cars or tape to be seen and he hadn’t gotten a call from Lestrade telling him to stand down. It was probably one of Mycroft’s contracted men. But Mycroft hadn’t shown up. In fact, there was no sign of a break in. Sherlock checked the floor before he took another step forward. He had strung a hair along the floor, just inside the doorway. It was easy to miss if you didn’t know to look for it, but it wasn’t broken.

That didn’t make any sense. Sherlock walked forward, wincing at the mess on the table. It was covered in fluids. The bedpan was upturned and the gastronomy tube was tangled with the morphine drip. Then he noticed the floor. In the dust was a trail of blood and vomit smeared across the floor. He slowly followed it around a desk and over to a dark corner, his mind filled with dread.

He dropped his phone in surprise when he saw John looking back at him. It landed with the flashlight facing upwards, and neither man moved for the longest time.

They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity before Sherlock spoke. “Hello, John.”

John’s eyes were glazed over, but he reacted to the sound of Sherlock’s voice, leaning towards it. Sherlock slowly reached down to grab his phone, never taking his eyes off John.

John’s eyes dilated and he watched the phone move. Sherlock waved it slowly back and forth in front of him. John was reacting. He could see, could hear, could move already! This was remarkable.

John slowly and painfully reached upwards for the light, his eyes wide with fascination. His face contorted and he pulled his arm back, hissing at the pain. 

Sherlock lowered himself to the floor, still holding the phone, and reached towards John. John looked startled as he focused on Sherlock’s arm. His face was full of confusion and better yet, curiosity. John reached back and touched Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock stilled his hand and watched John explore his fingers, gently bending and prodding them. He brought Sherlock’s hand to his mouth and ran his lips over the palm and digits, exploring them.

A wide smile settled on Sherlock’s face when John discovered his own fingers too in the light, and moved them experimentally. 

Ever so slowly he moved closer and closer to John, watching new emotions find their way to John’s face. Then John saw him, really saw him, and time stood still. He reached for Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s heart was pounding, but he stayed still, that same smile stuck on his face. Fingers touched his hair first, lightly tugging and ruffling the curls. Then he moved down to the face, avoiding the eyes when he blinked, and pinching his ears. Sherlock pulled back when John tried to use his lips to explore Sherlock’s hair.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Sherlock said softly instead.

John winced and pulled back quickly, moaning at the pain the sharp action had caused.

“And some morphine,” Sherlock added.

He gathered a bowl of water, a rag, a syringe with morphine, and a tranquilizer just in case.

John didn’t seem to notice when Sherlock administered the pain killer since his stitches were probably giving him more grief.

Sherlock tried his best to wipe all the vomit, blood and piss off John, but it was hard trying to clean a loopy six foot newborn with a newfound fascination with water. John had commandeered the water bowl and Sherlock had tried to gently wrestle it back long enough to finish getting John clean. In the end there was probably more water on Sherlock than there was on John or the floor.

Sherlock didn’t have the strength to get John back onto the table in one piece, and John’s legs weren’t strong enough to support him yet, even if Sherlock had been stimulating muscles with electric shocks just to build them up again. He made a makeshift bed on the floor out of the comforter he kept down here and a balled up towel for a pillow. He draped his coat over John and watched as the morphine worked its magic and allowed John to peacefully drift off to sleep.

Sherlock allowed himself a moment of panic. This was completely unexpected. It was possible, sure, but the chances that John would have been able to gain a state of consciousness practically with no help from stimulants were almost none. Then again, John himself was an utter impossibility.

Sherlock sighed heavily and rested his head on his knees while he sat on the floor next to John. This meant he had to make some changes. He looked around the room. For one he had to child proof the basement. Then he would have to make a physical therapy regimen to help John with. He would have to start introducing John to solid foods and with that came toilet training. He didn’t even have clothes ready yet.

Sherlock stood up and rolled his stiff neck. Looks like this would be his second all-nighter in a row.


	9. Problem Child

Sherlock almost felt on edge with all the syringes locked up. It reminded him too much of rehab. He shook himself back into the present and continued to scrub the floor with a lemony scented bleach he had stolen from Ms. Hudson’s cupboards. He would get some more for her the next time he stepped out.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and panted slightly. Cleaning was exhausting, and John had made a real mess of the floors. More so than Sherlock had, and he’d exploded a pancreas once, by accident. He didn’t bother trying to get the blood stains up. Most of them had been there for years anyhow. It was the contamination he was worried about. John’s immune system was already in overdrive and he was going to be recovering for months, what with all the sutures and stitches Sherlock had put in him. The last thing he needed was an infection because of negligent hygiene. Come to think of it, he probably shouldn’t store John’s food in the same fridge as bacterial cultures. The food had to stay here, so the cultures would have to go upstairs.

Sherlock began listing off things he would have to sneak into his flat as he started scrubbing again.

It only took all night and nearly half the next day, but he had succeeded in making the place moderately more child proof. He looked at the rows of chemicals and grimaced slightly. Maybe John would stay put for a while.

He washed his hands and snapped on a new pair of gloves. He forgot about the padlock on the fridge and had to get a fresh pair of gloves to get a new morphine drip out. Ideally he wanted to keep John sedated while his body healed up a bit, since he was apparently too stubborn to wait a few weeks like he should have before waking up. But he couldn’t risk sending John back into a coma and throwing this opportunity down the drain. He could risk obscene amounts of pain killers that should keep John loopy enough to stay bedridden until Sherlock was better prepared to handle him and John was better prepared to handle his body.

He switched out the nearly empty bag with the new one and checked over John’s body for any bruising or enlarged veins. Over the next few weeks the possibility of a vein tearing would be very high, so he wanted John to move as little as possible until he was sure the circulatory system was up and running on its own again.

The large purpling bruises on John’s side and right arm were alarming. He hadn’t noticed it in the dark, since half the lights had been knocked over in John’s escape attempt last night. Now that he had better lighting he had to swallow down a surge of panic before he realized what had happened. The bruises were extensive, almost like he had fallen off a table with little control of his own limbs.

Of course he would get hurt. His leg muscles had atrophied too much to let John stand just yet, but the damage was still worrisome. That kind of rough treatment could lead to weakened veins in the area. None of the bones had cracked, thankfully. John had gotten away with minimal damage, all things considered. 

Sherlock sat down next to John and watched his chest rise and fall. He couldn’t help but think about how impossible it all was. Bringing a corpse to life was one thing, but for fate to line up everything so perfectly? There had to be a catch. He hadn’t even ripped out his pacemaker when he had apparently woken up and panicked. None of the poorly removed needles had caused any real damage. There was minimal blood loss. He had regained consciousness on his own for fucks sake. 

John groaned and his eyes fluttered open. 

Sherlock chuckled, “John you are impossible.”

John didn’t hear him, too far gone on pain killers and confusion. Sherlock pulled out a flashlight and shinned it in John’s eyes. He watched the pupils contract further and then dilate. John reached for the flashlight and rediscovered his hands.

Sherlock dug out a mostly empty notebook and started writing down what he could remember from yesterday. Whatever had happened, the conditions were obviously ideal.

John surprised himself by moving his hands out of his line of sight. He spent a great deal of time moving them in and out of his line of sight, each time making surprised grunts when they reappeared.

Sherlock wrote down, “No concept of object permanence.”

He pulled John into a sitting position and got out a portion of the mush he had been feeding directly into John’s stomach. He sat down cross legged across from John and used a tongue depressor to try and spoon feed John.

Really the problem should have been obvious to begin with, but for some reason Sherlock had forgotten that the mush was mostly kale and powdered vitamins which tasted like crap. John wasn’t having any of that and sprayed his first mouthful into Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock wiped his face off with his sleeve and gave John a disapproving look. “Really, there’s no call for that.”

John actually smiled, eyes crinkling in happiness.

“Good to know this amuses one of us,” Sherlock said.


	10. Tandem and Tantrum

John grew mentally exponentially, struggling to grasp language within a week after waking up. He was still unable to do much more than crawl, since his body was still in the process of healing and his muscles were still atrophied to the point that it hurt to lift himself up. The physical therapy would start helping soon.

Sherlock wiped the last of the apple slices’ remains off of John’s face and tried to get him into position to work on his legs.

“Come on John. Turn over; flat on your back.” Sherlock tried to kneel down and nudge John onto his back.

John stubbornly flipped over onto his stomach and grabbed at the sheets Sherlock had lain down on the floor on top of an old mattress.

Sherlock gently tugged at his shoulder and said, “John, your legs aren’t going to get better if you don’t use them.”

John made a muffled noise.

Sherlock paused and asked, “What was that?”

John lifted his head enough to look Sherlock dead in the eye and mumble, “No.” His head flopped back down and he grabbed the blankets tighter.

Sherlock just tried to keep the smile off his face as he coaxed John over onto his back. “Can you say anything besides no?”

John looked at the wall instead of Sherlock, “No.”

“John, stop being difficult.” Sherlock pulled John back over inch by inch. John was heavy but still had little control over his body.

John ended up on his back, but wasn’t happy about it. He kicked feebly out at whatever was nearby and yelled again, “No.”

Sherlock tried to grab John’s legs. “John, stop that. John!”

John accidentally kicked a shelf and a bag of saline solution fell off, exploding over Sherlock’s head. John shrieked with pain and curled up, beginning to wail.

Sherlock blinked the saline out of his eyes and lowered his hands. John’s wailing was pounding against his eardrums, and then the blood started roaring in his ears and Sherlock yelled, “Would you be quiet!”

John stopped, gapping at Sherlock in horror. Sherlock’s eyes widened as John began to whimper.

“Shh, shh. No, I didn’t mean it. John, shhh.” Sherlock tried to quiet him, but it was too late.

John started bawling now, snot running down his nose and tears dribbling into his ears.

“Don’t cry. No, don’t do that.” Sherlock awkwardly patted John’s shoulder in an attempt to soothe him.

John screamed, “No!” and lashed out loosely at Sherlock, pushing away his hands. 

Sherlock looked to the ceiling for the patience and answers he didn’t have. “John,” he tried again, “if you stop crying I’ll let you have a lolly.” Sherlock’s tone was sickly sweet. He felt as though this were beneath him, being reduced to bargaining with a child.

John’s loud sobs trailed off to quiet whimpers and he asked Sherlock, “Geen?”

Sherlock nodded, false grin stretching wider with the strain of keeping his voice calm. “Yes, I’ll give you a green one, just no more crying. Have we got a deal?”

John looked hesitant, but his childish greed got the better of him and he nodded, sniffing and wiping his eyes with his hands. “Okey.”

Sherlock grimaced slightly. “Don’t do that. Come here,” Sherlock scolded. He produced a tissue from his pocket and wiped away John’s tears with it. He held it to John’s nose and told him to blow. John obliged and Sherlock tossed the tissue in the garbage on his way to the padlocked fridge where he hid the lollypops. He grabbed a towel and wiped himself down first.

He thought he knew what to expect, if only vaguely, but he never could have prepared himself for John. It was a miracle the bullet had killed him, really. He was a force to be reckoned with, even with the brain of a child. Just this morning he had entered the lab to find the lock on the mini fridge jammed, the blade of a scalpel broken off inside. He didn’t even know how John had managed to get ahold of a scalpel without him knowing. He was lucky the man’s childish brain had only treats in mind.

He unwrapped the treat and relocked the door to the fridge, holding the candy out to John but refusing to relinquish it. “Are you going to do your exercises?” he asked John, suspiciously.

John frowned and sniffled, but there was no running from it. He gave in and chewed on the lollypop through the physical therapy session.

Once they were done and John had spent a sufficient time pouting Sherlock asked him, “John, did you find a book you wanted to read?”

John nodded eagerly and crawled over to one of the stacks of books and pointed at a rather large medical book on the musculature system. Clever boy, thought Sherlock as he smiled. John thought that by choosing a longer book he could convince Sherlock to stay longer, even if it meant the book would be boring.

To his surprise, John took a genuine interest in the book, his eyes shining with unconcealed interest as he pored over the diagrams, listening to Sherlock drone on about tendons and leg muscles. He was even more surprised when John finished his sentence for him. 

“And this tendon here is called,” Sherlock pointed to the Achilles tendon in the diagram.

“Cacanee tendon!” shouted John excitedly. Looking to Sherlock for approval.

Sherlock was startled. That was correct, albeit mispronounced, but still correct. John’s tongue was having a hard time keeping up with his brain so it could be a fluke, but then again... Sherlock was puzzled. John wasn’t supposed to know the scientific name, much less the colloquial one. Sherlock hadn’t said it in front of him, and John still couldn’t read past a four-year old’s level. Which only left… the impossible.

“John what is this bone called?” he asked, pointing to the heel in the diagram. 

John screwed up his face in concentration and said, very slowly, “Cacalanum.”

Sherlock nodded his head. “Very good, John. That is the calcaneum.”

John smiled widely, basking in Sherlock’s praise.

“John, where did you learn that?” Sherlock asked curiously, not really expecting an answer.

John rocked back and wrapped his arms around his knees, hugging them to his chest. He was thinking so hard his tongue was peeking out in concentration. His face cleared up when he had alighted upon the answer and said, “I docker.”

Sherlock stared at him, slightly stunned. There was something to put in his notes. Major recovery of memories. That was something he did not expect. John’s brain has ceased function for far too long when he had gotten it. Any trace of his past life should have essentially disappeared, but here was John, once again defying all reason and instead regaining his memories, his schooling, his profession. 

John picked thoughtfully at the stitches on his arm and Sherlock absentmindedly swatted his hand away. “Sheelock?” asked John.

“Mhm?” he said, only half listening.

John pointed to his stitches and asked, “Sheelock fix?”

Sherlock considered him for a moment, and nodded. “Yes.”

John nodded sagely and said with childish conviction, “Docker Sheelock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! Looks who's not dead. It's me! John's going to grow up pretty fast from here, reaching the point where Sherlock will feel comfortable taking him out of the lab in a matter of months. Comments are appreciated and yes I love geeking out about the specifics of this story. I spent wayyyy to much time trying to decide the implications of someone really coming back to life. Hope ya'll have a merry Christmas.


	11. Sherlock the Wizard

“Sherlock?” John asked one day, almost a month later as they were having supper in the secret lab in the basement of the building Sherlock lived in. “Are you really a doctor?”

Sherlock paused, fork halfway to his mouth. “I don’t ever remember saying I was,” he replied nonchalantly.

John frowned and stared at his arm with great concentration. He had been doing that a lot lately, Sherlock noted. He wasn’t sure if it was because he felt uncomfortable with eye contact or just never relearned it. The prior revelation of John’s returning memory was only a half triumph. John did not seem as though he would ever regain his full memory, but occasionally he would say or do something so very unlike himself that Sherlock was certain it was the old John peeking through. The problem was, he only ever got bits and pieces of the man he used to be. Bits and pieces of the ability to function as an adult. He could remember how to test a blood sample for its type, for instance, but couldn’t for the life of him remember not to swallow gum. Sherlock had made an executive decision and banned gum altogether from the lab so that John would not have the chance to choke on it, especially when Sherlock wasn’t around.

“What do… what,” John grunted in frustration. Oftentimes simple words slipped his mind and he was forced to improvise, often badly. “What do you not doctor?” John finally got out, with great disgust at his own inability to properly communication his question.

Sherlock asked John instead, “Do you mean to ask my profession, or about my medical aptitude that falls short of being an actual doctor?”

John looked mystified for a moment, mouthing “profession” several times over before he gave it a go and said with painstaking clarity, “What is your profession?”

Sherlock smiled at John. It had only taken a month for John to notice the inconsistencies in Sherlock’s words, though he never technically told John a lie. He was learning faster and faster. “I am a consulting detective,” he said simply.

John looked at him with confusion. “Elaborate.” John quite often forgot the word explain, so he instead used elaborate after picking it up from Sherlock a couple of weeks ago. He had liked it even more than “no” and went around the lab pointing at things and demanding that Sherlock “elaborate.”

Sherlock obliged and rattled of a quick explanation. “It’s not surprising you haven’t heard of it. I’m the only one around. It’s a bit like a private investigator, but I’m the one the police come to when they’re out of their depth.” Sherlock drank from his cup and watched in amusement as John digested these facts.

“Why?” John asked.

“Why am I the only one, why did I make it, or something else?” Sherlock asked.

“Something else,” said John.

“Is it about the police?” he asked.

John nodded.

“Are you asking why I don’t just work for them, or why they come to me?”

“Why to you?” John asked.

Sherlock grinned, “Because I’m smarter.”

“Arrogant, more like,” said John scathingly as he stabbed a piece of broccoli and looked at it with apprehension.

Sherlock let out a chuckle. He certainly hadn’t been expecting that. This John Watson fellow, when he popped up, always had something to say. He was really starting to grow on Sherlock, but it was a pity he only ever got to see him occasionally like this.

“But… but, rrrr…” John looked rather put out and Sherlock was curious to know what he had to say. “Justify,” John said slowly.

Sherlock most certainly hadn’t been expecting that either. “You think my arrogance is justified?” Sherlock asked for clarification.

John nodded and washed down his broccoli with a gulp of milk, shuttering at the taste.

Sherlock laughed and asked rhetorically, “Should I be flattered you think so highly of me, John?”

John wasn’t paying attention, however. He was again absorbed in staring at his arm as he ate almost robotically, barely paying attention to what passed his lips. Sherlock could have put a dead bug on John’s plate, and he would have eaten it without a second thought. Sherlock entertained the idea of how far he could go before John finally noticed something was amiss.

“Are you… have magic?” John asked oddly after his plate had been cleared.

This one Sherlock wasn’t sure how to approach. “What do you mean by magic, John. I thought we already established the difference between fairy tales and electric lights.”

John shook his head and put down his fork. He held out his arm to Sherlock, the left one. Sherlock glanced at it, but couldn’t find anything wrong with it. Sherlock waited patiently for John to translate his own thoughts.

“I was… little,” said John, still holding out his arm, as though the story would magically make itself known for him. “A… I had… little thing. Teeth. Long ears. Hairy.”

“An animal?” clarified Sherlock.

John nodded. “Bit me, here,” he said pointing a little way up his forearm where the skin was decidedly blank except for a mole or two. Then John turned over his hand and pointed to the palm which was wrinkled with ages of hard work.

“In the bad place… loud noises. A man. He had blood. Lots of blood. He wasn’t good, but he had blood,” John gestured to his face, “all over. I’m a doctor,” John said determinedly. “I’m a doctor.”

“Bit the hand that pet him, did he? You seem to make a habit of letting things do that to you. Maybe you should be a little more warry of others,” Sherlock mussed, already catching on to the moral of this series of events.

“He cut me,” said John quietly. “Here,” he made a line down his thumb.

John turned his hands over again this time holding them up against each other. “A little man…” John said, the effort of sorting through and translating his fuzzy memories was clearly exhausting him but he would not stop until he had said his piece. 

“A boy?” asked Sherlock. “Like in Peter Pan?”

John nodded vigorously. “He took… colors. Not his. Blue. Pretty blue. Like yours.”

Sherlock took that to mean the color of his eyes. John had been fascinated with bright colors. When Sherlock had brought in a string of Christmas lights, John had clapped his hands for joy and declared them fairy lights. That week’s book had been about the history of the lightbulb. John had not been too partial to it, but had accepted the lesson all the same.

“Put colors on my, my fingers. He was mad. He said… said they were too short.” John reached for Sherlock’s hand and tapped his thumbnail. “This,” he said by way of explanation.

“Your fingernails were too short,” Sherlock told him.

John nodded. “Fingernails.” Then he showed Sherlock his hands, both of which had large, round nails on them. John was used to the stubby little things that settled too high up on his fingers and barely grew from their beds. It was an obvious change, and one John was not able to explain away. Hence, magic.

John held up his hands and clenched and unclenched them slowly, as if watching a separate creature move of its own power. He looked up at Sherlock and said with a perfect acceptance, “Not mine.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face and tapped them against his lips. “No, they’re not,” he admitted.

“Who?” asked John.

“John, you’re a doctor. Is it right to assume you know where donated organs come from?” Sherlock asked him.

John tiled his head in thought and then nodded. 

“Well, there you go.”

John wasn’t finished with it though and asked, “Why?”

“Why do organs get donated or something else?”

“Something else,” said John.

“Is it something about donated organs?”

“No.”

“Is it something about your donated parts?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you have them?” guessed Sherlock.

John shook his head, frustrated. “Why?” he said again.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Why did you need them?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock had been thinking this one over. He had a pretty little speech prepared, actually, but speeches were never his forte. “John, how well do you remember the bad place. The one with the loud noises and bleeding people, the ones that hurt you, and the ones you hurt as well.”

“Bad place,” said John quietly.

“You were wounded, badly, so badly in fact that you were rushed away from the bad place so that doctors could operate on you to try and save your life. The injury seemed to be doing well, actually. You were recovering, but then something went wrong. The doctors, they left you for dead, but not me. I knew that you needed some help getting better, and that it wouldn’t be easy, but I knew you could do it. You are, after all, a survivor.” None of it was, technically, a lie.

John was quiet, and then asked, “Survivor? Elaborate?”

“You don’t give up so easily. You would rather fight your way out of certain death than take it lying down. I should know. You’ve tried it once or twice when you were on the table. Made a mess trying to get away.” Sherlock popped some chicken in his mouth and chewed.

John suppressed a shudder, glancing at the table. The table was also a bad place. Whenever he was on the table, he hurt. He bled. It always took some time until he felt better again, for the sick feeling to go away. 

“You’re nearly impossible to stop. A force of nature, in your own right,” Sherlock mused, partly to himself. It was true after all. John was his very own impossibility, and he was reluctant to let go of that.

John helped him wash up in the sterile metal sink and put away the dishes. Now that John was able to understand more, Sherlock had seen fit to give him more responsibilities and to allow some things like plates and utensils to stay out. John was rapidly learning to read, having made his way through several medical books Sherlock had left lying around, the classic fairy tales he had picked up at a thrift store, and a cook book he had stolen from Mrs. Hudson. He needed to get something more challenging for John. The sooner he extended his vocabulary the sooner he would be able to communicate properly. John still had fits when his frustration got the better of him. Just three days ago, John had asked a question that Sherlock, for the life of him, simply couldn’t understand. John, being unable to better articulate his desires, had smashed several glass vials in a fit. Sherlock had pointedly taken all the lollypops with him when he left John that day. He still hasn’t brought them back, which was why John had been on his best behavior lately.

After giving John a sponge bath and helping him change into a new set of clothes, he let John read one of the easier fairy tales to him. He was doing quite well. He kept tripping up on Rapunzel’s name, but otherwise he barely needed a nudge to figure out the trickier words. It was like the information was locked inside his brain, so tantalizingly close to the surface, yet more difficult to grasp than mist. 

When Sherlock made to leave that night, John tried to follow him out again. This certainly wasn’t the first time. He had already grown bored of the single room he lived in. He was so limited in what he could do, what he could understand. Sherlock almost pitied him, childlike as he was, but to do so would mar his image of John. John was a survivor, so if he had to wait he would wait for as long as it took.


	12. A Change of Pace

Sherlock was scribbling in his notebook, the one he never left out long enough for John to read. John was attempting to knit, if by attempting one actually meant massacring a ball of yarn. The mess of dropped stitches, tangled backtracking and uneven loops didn’t look anything at all like a scarf.

John sighed and put down the needles, only to find one of them was somehow still tied to his fingers. He grunted in frustration and tugged at the yarn, but to no avail.

Sherlock looked up, pen finally still. He watched John struggle to free himself. He still didn’t have the precision skills or dexterity necessary to undo a knot. He also wasn’t allowed scissors for the same reason. 

John sighed again in defeat. “Are you just going to sit there or are you going to save my pride and offer to cut me free?” he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock hummed, as though considering. 

John rolled his eyes. “Just help me already, you git,” he demanded.

Sherlock slid off the table and joined John on the floor. He took John’s offered hand and began picking at the knotted mess. “I don’t remember teaching you that one.”

“Name-calling must be another type of muscle memory then,” John said sarcastically as he was freed from his mess of a scarf.

John sighed again.

“John, am I to assume your hyperbolic distress is a means of getting my attention?” Sherlock asked.

John rolled his eyes again. “Maybe it’s a sign of boredom. Because, like any sane human that’s been trapped in a basement for who knows how bloody long, I’m _bored_.”

Sherlock’s long, thin fingers made quick work of the knot, and John shook himself free. “I’ve told you before, John. This is a-“

“Controlled environment,” John finished for him. “Which is why the pipes leak and there’s half a foot of dust on everything. Not to mention the stolen medical equipment and that shoddy blood transfusion set up you probably put together yourself. It’s a wonder I haven’t died already of contamination or something equally preventable,” John said with as much biting sarcasm as he could muster.

Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt and shrugged before picking back up his notebook and resuming scribbling once again.

“What, no, no… nothing? Nothing to say? Not even going to defend yourself?” John asked, not expecting a real answer.

Sherlock paused and looked up from his notebook. “No. You’re entirely right.”

John’s face made a strange sort of leap on his left side and Sherlock hurried to write that down. “I’m right?” John asked incredulously. “All this time. All of… Me calling you a back-alley quack and now I’m right?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his notebook. “You’ve always been right, John. But this is the first time that you’ve been able to prove it to yourself.”

John stared at him, the left side of his face struggling to twitch despite his efforts. “Right, well I’m done here.” John declared and struggled to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall to support himself. “Thanks for all your help. I’ll just see myself out.” He pushed off against the wall and started walking towards the door, supporting himself on various shelves and tables as he went. “Ta, then.”

Sherlock didn’t bother getting up. He just waited until John made it to the door and stopped. “I don’t suppose you’d just hand over the key?” John asked without a glimmer of hope in his voice as he stared at that same dirty brass knob that always stood in his way. He leaned heavily against the door as his legs screamed with the effort of his little protest.

“Come sit down, John,” Sherlock said casually. 

John was already breathing heavily. He turned to face Sherlock and threw his free hand up in exasperation, his other still supporting him. “Alright, you win. I give up. Why can’t I leave now?”

Sherlock gave him a disapproving look and put aside his infernal notebook before standing to deliver what John was sure would be a scathing lecture. “John, you have left behind the world outside that door for so long that it would not recognize you if you went back out. That means you, as you are now, do not exist. No identification, no certificates, no papers, no money, nothing. Just what food you’ve already put into your stomach and what clothes you have on your back. John Watson is a dead man, and you are not him.”

A thin beeping filled the room and John dropped to the floor. Sherlock rushed forward to help. John clawed at his neck and his mouth gaped open like a fish. His face was beet red and purpling.

Sherlock threw up John’s shirt and rushed to disconnect the wires on the device taped to John’s side. His fingers didn’t even tremble as he reattached the wires and pressed the reset button. He didn’t have room for mistakes. The beeping halted.

John sucked in air with a thin scream. His chest heaved and he gulped down breath after stolen breath while his face returned to its normal color.

“Most importantly,” Sherlock told John as he watched his face fade back to a pink color, “ _You_ are not ready.” He dug a lollypop out of his pocked and folded it into John’s limp hand. “You need to watch your blood sugar. There’s only so much I can do to keep you alive if you insist on making it difficult.”

John coughed lightly, pain etched on his face. “I… told you… shoddy… equipment…” he whispered.

Sherlock smiled. “Maybe we’re both at fault this time.” He stood and came back with a pillow and his notebook. After propping up John’s head and getting him to sip some water and eat the lollypop, Sherlock went back to writing in his notebook.

John strained to move his neck even an inch, but he couldn’t get a glimpse of that damn notebook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated. If there's anything you want a warning for, feel free to ask.


	13. Mail Order Bride

It was a wet and dreary day in London. As were most days, but today Sherlock felt especially in tune with the weather. His brother had just called and announced he’d be by for a surprise visit.

“This isn’t a visit, it’s an interrogation,” Sherlock had accused. 

“You lost your right to privacy when you wound up in the hospital. If you can’t be trusted with your own safety, then it becomes my responsibility. And I take my responsibilities seriously,” said Mycroft with his usual condescending tone.

Sherlock had hung up on him and hurried home. He had precious little time to make sure Mycroft didn’t find anything too incriminating when he barged in. Sherlock hadn’t bothered taking off his soaked trench coat at 221 Baker Street. He was half way up the stairs when Ms. Hudson caught him.

“Oh, Sherlock!” she yelled from the kitchen. “Sherlock, just a moment dear!”

Sherlock clenched and unclenched his hands around the banister, impatient to get to his flat.

Ms. Hudson smiled at him and said, “Your friend stopped by earlier, but you weren’t in. I hope you don’t mind. I let him in so he could wait for you.”

“I don’t have any friends,” Sherlock said coldly.

“He’s such a handsome young man,” she said aloud, completely ignoring Sherlock. “You should tell him to come around more often. He’s very partial to my mulberry scones.”

Sherlock swore internally. Ms. Hudson knew what Mycroft looked like, and if it wasn’t Mycroft, then who would be looking for him?

“Such a nice man,” Ms. Hudson’s words rang in his ears as he opened the door to his already unlocked flat and saw a familiar dusty blonde head of hair sitting, calm as you like, in _his_ chair.

The man put down his cup of tea, no doubt delivered by the landlady. Traitor. The man stood, grabbing a walking cane that had been leaning against the chair. Where had he gotten that?

“Hello, Sherlock,” John said smugly. “I let myself in, hope you don’t mind.”

Sherlock spun around, slamming the door, and locking it with a heavy thud. He stalked up to John, fury in his eyes. “You, you absolute imbecile!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

Just then they both heard a car drive up to the apartment. Men shouted outside. Ms. Hudson could be heard down the stairs, offering to bring some tea up, and how she hadn’t seen him in some time.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John whispered, Sherlock’s sudden agitation throwing him off.

“Just don’t say a word, and go along with whatever I say if you want to live,” Sherlock threatened.

Someone knocked on the door and John felt his heart leap in his chest. His fingers itched to be holding something metal for the first time that he could remember. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to relax. He took off his coat with meticulous calm, his eyes blank, and his face expressionless.

“Why don’t you take a seat, John. It seems as though we have visitors,” Sherlock said as though he hadn’t been threatening John with death just seconds earlier.

John, confused and rather peeved that Sherlock still wasn’t telling him anything, sat. He knew when to pick his battles.

Sherlock hung up his wet coat on the rack and dumped a few small items into flowerpots with dead leaves and little else. John tried to calm himself as Sherlock opened the door. On the other side of the door was one of the least impressive people John had ever seen. He was of average height, with a not particularly handsome face, a slight gut and a thinning hairline. He was, however, dressed in a suit so well-tailored, that John was sure it must have been custom made. It probably cost a fortune. His confident body language and the intimidating men in suits that followed him made John wonder what exactly he’d just walked into.

The intimidating man smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant thing to see. “Shirley. How good to see you again.”

Sherlock ushered him in and shut the door on his intimidating entourage. “Mikey, how have you been?” Sherlock asked, dripping false sincerity. “You’re looking…” He looked pointedly at Mycroft’s gut, “well.”

John had the distinct feeling that he was intruding.

“Why don’t you sit down. You’ve already invited yourself in, and I’m sure Ms. Hudson will be up with tea shortly,” Sherlock offered.

“Thank you, brother dear, but I’d rather stand,” Mycroft said. Both brothers were glaring daggers at each other.

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock eventually said, and sat down in the chair next to John’s.

Mycroft wandered over to the mantle, picking up various things and putting them back down in a different place. “Am I interrupting something?” Mycroft asked, glancing at John, who had been decidedly silent this whole time.

“Not at all,” Sherlock shot back. 

“Shirley, why don’t you introduce us, then,” Mycroft jibbed, coming over to stand next to John’s chair. His looming figure made John’s heart beat a little faster.

Sherlock glared at Mycroft as he spoke. “John, this is my brother, Mycroft. Mycroft, John.”

Mycroft held out his hand and John hastily put down his tea that he had picked up in order to avoid looking at Mycroft. Shaking hands, John tried to smile. “Pleasure,” he managed.

Mycroft glanced at the cane resting against John’s leg. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked suddenly.

John paused. “Sorry?” he asked. 

“You’re a military man. Did you serve in Afghanistan or Iraq?” Mycroft said by way of explanation.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, but how did…?” John began to ask.

“The way you hold yourself,” Sherlock interrupted. “It’s a distinctive military style, as well as your haircut. As for you tan…”

This time Mycroft interrupted him. “Your face shows the remains of a faded tan, but it doesn’t go above your wrists, so you’ve been abroad but not to sunbathe.”

“For work and not pleasure,” Sherlock inserted. “Which means you had to have gotten back recently, within the last year, which brings me to…”

“Your cane,” interrupted Mycroft, causing Sherlock to glare. “You were injured badly enough to be sent home. After all this time, you still are unused to the cane, which is why it leans against your leg in such a precarious position that you will knock it over when you get up.”

Sherlock inserted himself before Mycroft could continue. “Almost as though you forget it’s still there by the time you stand up. Which means your limp, which you have a cane to help with, is most likely…”

“Psychosomatic,” Mycroft butted in, stealing Sherlock’s thunder. He glanced at John then continued talking at Sherlock, “And the surprise on your face says you haven’t got a therapist yet. Most likely a sense of pride or a lack of care, but I’m sure the circumstances in your life have proved very distracting.”

“That… was amazing,” breathed John, staring at the two of them.

Sherlock and Mycroft turned to look at him at once, both so surprised that they forgot to speak. John awkwardly lifted his tea to his lips again, using it as an excuse to avoid the unsettling stares.

“That’s not what people normally say,” Mycroft finally broke the silence.

“What do people normally say?” asked John.

“Piss off,” said Sherlock. He smiled briefly at John who laughed.

Just then Ms. Hudson arrived with a fresh pot of tea and Mycroft finally sat down across from John and Sherlock.

“So,” John asked Mycroft after they had all been served tea and scones, “what is it you do?”

“I occupy a minor position in the British Government,” he said.

Sherlock leaned over and stage whispered to John, “He is the British government.”

“Oh?” said John politely, suddenly realizing that earlier Sherlock hadn’t been threatening him. It had been a warning.

“Enough about me,” Mycroft changed the subject. “How did you and my brother come to meet?”

John was saved the embarrassment and possible death sentence of answering when Sherlock spoke for him.

“He’s a mail order bride, actually,” Sherlock said, matter of factly.

Mycroft and John made a similar face. “I can tell this is going to be a good one,” Mycroft said, reaching for his third scone.

Sherlock leaned forward and spun his tale. “It all started with Ms. Hudson, actually. She’s always telling me she’s not a housekeeper, and it’s true. She’s very unreliable when I ask her to do things like dust when I’m gone over the weekend or put on a fresh pot of coffee. But you know how housekeeping services are. They find one foot in the crisper and suddenly I’ve got Scotland Yard ransacking my flat, looking for any excuse to throw me in jail.”

John wondered briefly if he should be worried that Mycroft nodded understandingly.

“I was at the lab when I overheard a conversation about mail order brides and, after several extensive applications and three matching services later, here we are.” 

Mycroft glanced at John, amused. “And you chose him why, exactly?”

“He’s a retired military doctor. He can cook and clean and would be able to defend himself if need be. His experience may prove to be helpful. And he’s not gay.”

John’s head practically snapped as he turned to look at Sherlock. The excuse had been strange enough, but the implication hadn’t occurred to him until just now, that he would be… with Sherlock. Honestly, the man’s seen more of him than most married couples see of each other, and it wasn’t a comfortable fact.

Mycroft nodded in approval. “And do I need to do a background check on Mr…?”

Sherlock rummaged through a box next to his feet and handed over a stack of papers in a blue file folder to his brother. “Watson. His name is John Watson, and everything you’ll want to get your nose in is right here in this folder, along with a list of contacts you can interrogate if that’s not enough.”

John looked at the folder in surprise. It was almost as thick as his forearm. When did Sherlock have the time to do all this? What happened to “you don’t exist”?

Mycroft didn’t have a chance to open the file when his phone rang. He checked the screen and sighed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this visit-“

“Interrogation,” Sherlock interjected.

“…short,” Mycroft said, looking at Sherlock in disapproval. He stood, tucking the file under one arm. Sherlock remained sitting, but John made to stand with Mycroft. His cane clattered to the floor. He stared awkwardly at it as Mycroft brushed by him without pausing to shake his hand in farewell. Mycroft opened the door himself and paused just long enough to deliver an ominous threat, “I’m sure we’ll be seeing much more of each other from now on, John.”

They stayed frozen where they were long after Mycroft had left, long enough for them to both hear the sound of Mycroft’s undoubtedly black, bulletproof car and its escort to leave.

 

“So,” said John, sitting back down, and picking up his fallen cane. “Your brother seems…”

“Insufferable?” 

“Well I was going to say a lot like you, but that works too,” John joked.

Sherlock sighed and sank into his chair. He kicked off his shoes and his bare feet slid across the carpet as he slouched impossibly lower.

“Is that comfortable?” John asked, genuinely curious.

“It helps me think,” Sherlock replied.

“I’m not going to apologize,” John added.

“No, I didn’t think you would.”

“But you expected this? Me getting out?” John asked.

“Mmhm. I just wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“Ah. Was that because of the pacemaker?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned to look at John, who was leaning forward to see him in his slouched position. “How did you know about that?”

“Sherlock, I’m a doctor. I’ve had to work with some piss poor equipment before, and this thing,” he pointed to his side where the pacemaker was strapped to his skin underneath his shirt, “is high quality. The only problem was, it was working like a shite one. I got it open and figured out what was going on. The tape was a neat trick. Made it short every time I started breathing too fast.”

Sherlock closed his eyes again with a smile. “You never fail to surprise me, John.”

“And you’re still an ass,” John added. John munched on another one of Ms. Hudson’s scones. He was happy to be able to eat real food again, and not just the strange, nutrient rich, concoctions that Sherlock had brought him. Right now, real tea and scones tasted like the best thing in the world.

“Why a mail order bride?” John finally asked.

Sherlock sighed. “I know a woman. She owed me a favor after I cleared her name and stopped a human trafficking ring that was going after her people. She put together the paperwork and she’ll tell Mycroft whatever I want her to. It was the easiest identity to come up with. Does it bother you?”

“No, I guess not. Buying a person because you don’t want to clean up does sound very you.” John finished off the last of the scones and relaxed in his chair. He felt, comfortable. Like a real person. No dusty basement and endless boredom. Although Sherlock’s flat did resemble the basement lab. There were piles of books and things everywhere. He’d already found several moulding body parts in the fridge and whatever that contraption in the kitchen was. Actually, the basement might have been cleaner.

“So, what do I do now?” John asked, a little bit afraid to hear the answer. Sherlock had been right about him having nothing. He couldn’t run away even if he wanted to. Sherlock was basically his whole world right now, and there was nothing he could do about it. It frustrated him to no end.

Sherlock looked as though he were melting off the chair, dead to the world. “Exactly what Mycroft expects you to do,” Sherlock said with his eyes closed. “You live here now, and if you’re feeling up to it, you can come with me on my next case. I wasn’t lying when I said having someone with your background would be useful. I’ve already taken the liberty of stocking your closet. Your room is down the hall, second on the left. The bathroom is on the right, and if there’s anything else you need, you can get it yourself. I’ve got a jar in the kitchen somewhere with a few hundred pounds. Just use that when you go out.”

John drank his tea quietly. He wasn’t sure exactly what he expected to come from breaking out of the basement, but this wasn’t it. He wasn’t expecting everything to already be set up, waiting for him to arrive. He was honestly expecting a fight, but here was Sherlock, handing him a wad of cash and giving him free reign of London, as though he hadn’t kept John locked up in a tiny room for months. He really couldn’t figure Sherlock out. 

It was almost like this whole scenario was a test. Just to see how long it would take John to figure things out himself. He’d felt like a guinea pig before, under Sherlock’s constant supervision to see how John had improved, day by day, but this was something else entirely. Like Sherlock was trying to test him, not as a doctor would their patient, but as a scientist their experiment. Well, Sherlock had never been a doctor to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and questions are appreciated. If there's anything in particular you want a warning for, feel free to ask. Thanks for reading!


	14. Crying Over Spilled Milk

John took a deep breath and clenched his fist around his cane. So far, nobody had confronted him about taking it, so he kept the thing. He hated it for making him feel old. John glanced at the brass doorknob, worn shiny with use. He hated the cane for making him feel weak. He reached for the doorknob, holding his breath.

“Going out, dear?” asked Ms. Hudson, making him jump in surprise.

He cleared his throat and opened the door for her. “Yes, Ms. Hudson. Just thought I’d pick up some milk, since Sherlock forgot to.”

She smiled at him and whispered as she passed him, “You know, we’ve got all types here. Mrs. Turner, next door, has married ones.” Taking his awkward smile as encouragement, she patted his shoulder. “You’ve got nothing to worry about dear. I can tell, you’re good for him.”

John forgot he was going somewhere and kept ahold of the door long after Ms. Hudson had left. A noise upstairs snapped him out of it and he slipped outside into the rain. He hurried along the sidewalk, ducking his head against the brutal winds and pelting downpour. 

In his pocket, he kept his hand clenched around the wad of cash he had eventually found in the kitchen. Granted, it had only been after he’d found an unmarked jar of ears and what might have once been a massive jar of preserves that was now growing its own ecosystem. Sherlock hadn’t been joking when he said he needed someone to clean. John just didn’t see why Sherlock didn’t do it himself. Lazy prick.

It only took John two wrong turns to find the little general store tucked away next to a pub and a pharmacy. It wasn’t very impressive, but that’s what John had been aiming for. Somewhere quiet and small. Not too many people. He was still getting used to people again. 

There was a disconnect between his brain and his mouth when he tried to speak sometimes. It made communicating difficult. He could think one thing and open his mouth, but sometimes he’d lose the words before he could speak, other times the ability to talk just deserted him entirely. Sherlock used these lapses against him. He was very good at winning arguments that way, when John couldn’t give him a counterargument because he’d gotten too worked up. Sherlock’s calculated cool was forever infuriating.

John pushed aside his thoughts and through the pair exiting the store. It was blessedly dry and warm. He breathed in the smell of old paper and new peppermint mingling with rubber and the sweet scent of fresh fruits and vegetables. He got in the way of the next customer entering, and stepped aside, just taking it in.

“Can I help you?” asked the woman behind the counter, smiling at him kindly.

He tried to speak but failed, instead shaking his head. He moved through the store, just experiencing. The kitschy table of sparkling London themed knickknacks dazzled him. He’d forgotten how much keychains could glitter. The carrots smelled like wet earth and the tang of homegrown vegetables. All the wrappers crinkled deliciously under his fingers. John hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed this. He hadn’t been in a real store, around ordinary people in so long. Not since he’d been able to come home for a week for Christmas that one year. 

John froze, hand on a carton of milk. He’d had a home. He’d forgotten. Where was home again?

In a daze, John paid for the milk and nodded his thanks, leaving with plenty of change to spare. He wandered. It seemed like the logical thing to do. Maybe he’d pick up another memory, one of the important ones that had eluded him. 

He thought hard on the one he’d gotten. Home. What had it looked like? Who lived there? There had been someone else, right? He just couldn’t remember. All that came to mind was the stench of cleaning fluid and… cat litter? He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but it was full of missing names and blank faces. Anything tangible, concrete was just out of reach.

Someone bumped into John and he dropped the milk. It splattered over them both and the man swore loudly. John left it behind and kept walking, ignoring the man. Spilled… spilled something… red… something red… wine… beer? It smelled strong in his mind. It was cheap booze and it was everywhere. 

There was someone talking to him, but they sounded so far away, like they were muffled by a wall. Except, he could see them, vaguely. It wasn’t just in his head. There was someone standing beside him. They were asking if he was all right. He was not all right. He pushed past them and walked faster, cane clicking ever louder against the cobblestone walk. His legs began to burn, unused to moving so fast, and John gritted his teeth. 

He found himself in a park. He didn’t recognize the park. He sat down on a bench and let the rain douse him, washing the splattered milk from his trouser leg. His head was pounding and when he raised his hand, he could see it violently shaking, but from cold or something else he could not tell. He clasped the head of the cane with both hands, willing them to be still. He’d been hoping to end up somewhere familiar, maybe even recognize houses or buildings. He couldn’t even recall if he’d been in London before. His childhood was even less clear, a black void of mystery.

John closed his eyes and breathed, noticing the sharp pain in his chest as he took each breath. Sherlock was right, damn him. He was always right. John hadn’t been ready. He couldn’t even handle going to the store for milk. Maybe he’d never be ready. He’d be stuck in that stupid flat for the rest of his life, surrounded by Sherlock’s odd fixation on death and murder until he finally cracked and started talking to that skull on the mantle too.

He remembered what happened to the milk and leaned forward, hiding his tears in the downpour. He felt someone sit down next to him on the wet bench. For god’s sake. He glanced up to find the only person that could possibly find him, without fail, at his worst.

“How did you find me?” John shouted over the rain. “Let me guess, bugged me?” 

Sherlock looked down at John, condescendingly. “John, I am a master of deduction. I can identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. I am without parallel.”

John sighed, “Alright then, tell me how you deduced it.”

Sherlock showed John the screen of his phone, glowing blue in the dim light of an overcast sky. It was a map with several fluctuating graphs and bars and a pin in their location. “I bugged you,” said Sherlock.

John, despite himself, laughed. He laughed longer than he should have, soaking wet and all alone with thunder crashing behind them. He started to feel uncomfortable, just watching Sherlock stare at him as he felt like he was losing his mind. It was absolutely stupid, but John felt better by the end of it.

“Let’s go back. I’m soaked to my skin,” John complained after he had quieted down.

“I was in the middle of a job, actually. How would you like to come along?” Sherlock asked.

John wanted fiercely to get back to his little room at the flat and change into clean clothes, maybe even take a nap. But he wanted even more not to be alone right now. Even if not being alone meant accompanying Sherlock to an undisclosed location. Probably one of those dark alleyways where people get murdered. Sherlock seemed like the kind of person to hang around dark alleys. He nodded.

Sherlock had that manic grin on his face again. “Excellent. How’s your stomach feeling?”

John looked at him strangely as they hailed a cab. “Good, why?”

“Remember when I told you I was a consulting detective?” Sherlock asked him.

“When you made up a job because you’re too good to be employed, yeah. What of it?”

Sherlock ignored the barb. “There have been, now, four suicides, all of a matching nature, though the victims have all been completely unrelated. All have left behind absolutely nothing as to why they died, no note, clue, reason. Until now.”

John put two and two together. “And you, er, _we_ are going to the fourth suicide? The actual crime scene?”

Sherlock nodded, “Precisely. The police suspect murder, that’s why they called me. They have no leads, just a handful of unyielding clues, and one suspicious withdrawal each just before the time of death. Knowing the police, they’ve most likely overlooked important information.”

“Are you always so arrogant?” John asked. “I know you’re unbearable around me, but are you like this around other people too?”

Sherlock considered him for a moment. “Wasn’t it you who said it’s not arrogance if I can justify my own words.”

“No, I said you’re justifiably arrogant. Meaning you’re a smart prick, but still a prick.” 

“Hmm. I’ll remember that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are appreciated. If there's anything you want a warning for, feel free to ask.


	15. Pink!

They exited the cab to flashing lights and violently shaking police tape, blown around by the winds in the grey afternoon. 

“Oi, nice to see you finally decided to show up!” shouted a man at Sherlock, holding his collar up against the rain.

“Please tell me you left the body undisturbed,” Sherlock said forgoing niceties.

“You’re the one who took your sweet time getting here. Forensics is already up there,” the man said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his tone.

Sherlock took off for the decrepit building, stepping under the police tape. “It’s a crime scene!” Sherlock shouted, but nobody was really listening. “I don’t want it contaminated with your incompetence!”

John hurried after Sherlock and the man who had greeted him. “Freak’s here,” said a woman into a radio. Well that answered that question, John thought to himself. 

Sherlock didn’t wait for John to catch up. He entered the condemned building and climbed the stairs with an almost childlike excitement. John could feel a stitch in his side by the time he made it to the top of the stairs. Sherlock was arguing with one of the people dressed in blue plastic.

“The is my crime scene and that means you follow my rules. I’m not having it contaminated just to satisfy your ego,” a man already in blue coveralls told Sherlock scathingly.

“Your wife been away long, Anderson?” Sherlock asked, seemingly bored.

“Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that,” Anderson said.

“No, you just get particularly moody when she’s away,” Sherlock said with a smile.

“Now look here!” Anderson started shouting. 

John stepped in between them and took the blue plastic coveralls Anderson was holding and pressed hem firmly into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock didn’t move to take it.

“Arrogance is just as bad as incompetence, wouldn’t you say?” John asked him very pointedly.

Sherlock, seething, grabbed the coveralls from him and yanked it over one long leg and then the other. Anderson’s attention turned to John then.

“You…!” but he stopped, looking at John in confusion. “Who the hell are you?”

John felt more eyes on him and gripped his cane tighter. 

“Oi, who’s this?” Lestrade demanded looking at John.

“He’s with me,” said Sherlock simply. 

“But who is he?” asked Lestrade again, patience wearing thin.

“I said he’s with me,” Sherlock repeated, equally insistent.

Anderson shoved another pair of blue plastic coveralls at John. “Whatever, he needs to wear one of these too.”

John struggled into the suit and followed Sherlock into the room. Sherlock looked absolutely ridiculous in the blue coveralls. He was far too lanky for it, and the bottoms of his arms and legs stuck out past the ends of the cuffs. Anderson had him cover his arms with gloves and his legs with the large plastic booties. John chuckled and Sherlock glared at him. John wasn’t the only one to find the humor in the situation. The whole room was stifling laughter.

“Get these people out,” Sherlock addressed Lestrade after entering the room with the body.

“I can give you two minutes,” he told Sherlock.

“May need longer,” Sherlock said, casually.

Lestrade sighed. “Her name’s Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her.”

“Any withdrawals?” asked Sherlock, slowly circling the woman’s body as the people in blue coveralls filed out of the room.

“Still waiting, but I’d be surprised if there wasn’t.”

John had forgotten this: death. His face twisted in a grimace and his chest felt tight. He’d seen death. A lot of death. He’d been a military doctor. He’d seen the life go out of more eyes than he cared to suddenly remember. He realized he was crying when he noticed Sherlock staring at him.

“Are you alright, John,” he asked him calmly.

John wiped at his eyes and cleared his throat. “Fine.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you see,” Sherlock said, it was less of an offer, more of a direction, but most importantly it was something to do.

John lowered himself to the floor and Sherlock took his cane so that his hands were free. 

“We have a whole medical team outside. Is this why you brought him?” Lestrade asked, not bothering to speak low enough to save John’s feelings.

“They won’t work with me,” Sherlock complained. 

Lestrade snorted. “I’m breaking every rule just letting you in here,” he hissed.

“Because you need me,” Sherlock answered him, arrogant as always. And, as usual, he was right.

“Yes, I do, God help me,” Lestrade admitted. “Fine, do whatever you want.”

John took it as permission to begin examining the body. He couldn’t see any visible marks on her body. He leaned close to her face and sniffed. He held her hand, looking at the skin, then pulled back her sleeves one by one to check for needle marks. Finding none, he put her arms back about where he found them. Her left hand went next to the word carved into the floorboards. He winced in sympathy after taking a closer look at her nails. The fake nails overtop, as garishly pink as the rest of her outfit, had splintered and broken, then the real nail underneath had followed suit. Her fingers were bloody and the nail bed was full of splintered wood. She had certainly been determined to finish before she died. 

“Well, John?” asked Sherlock, reminding John that he wasn’t alone. Sherlock knelt down next to John.

“What am I doing here?” John whispered.

“Helping me. If you’re going to live in the flat then you’ve got to help me pay rent somehow.”

“The grocery would have worked just as well,” John whispered fiercely.

“Yeah, well, this is more fun,” Sherlock shrugged. 

“Fun? I am holding a dead woman!” John whispered, shaking the woman’s other limp hand in emphasis.

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper,” said Sherlock.

John sighed and spoke up so Lestrade could hear him too. “Most likely she died of asphyxiation. Passed out and choked on her own vomit. I can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs. In a superficial examination, I couldn’t find any puncture marks, most likely if she had taken drugs, it would have been orally.” John felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder. “As for the word…”

Anderson interrupted from the doorway. “Rache. It’s German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something.”

Sherlock stood and walked quickly to the door, closing it in Anderson’s face with a, “Yes, thank you for your input.”

“So, she’s German?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Were any of her cards in German?”

“Ah, no. They weren’t,” Lestrade admitted. 

“You’re looking for someone named Rachel. Find out who she is, what her connection to the woman is.

“Of course, she was writing ‘Rachel,’” Lestrade exclaimed. 

“The question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?” Sherlock mussed. 

He turned his attention to her clothes. He found an umbrella in her pocket, it was closed and dry. The back of her coat was damp, but not soaked. 

“Tell me, John. Why would someone not use their umbrella when walking in the rain,” Sherlock asked him, turning up her collar and running his fingers along the seam. 

“Uh, if you’re not planning on getting very wet?” John guessed.

“Exactly. She was only outside for a short time.” Sherlock moved to her legs, seeing the stains on her tights he pointed to them as John leaned over, curiously. “See these? Mud splatters, only on the back of her right leg. Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.”

“What suitcase?” interrupted Lestrade.

Sherlock looked up slowly at Lestrade. “Say that again.”

“What suitcase! There was no suitcase,” he protested.

Sherlock clapped his hands together. “The killer must have driven her here and forgot the suitcase in the car,” Sherlock declared.

“She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there,” John suggested.

“No, no,” Sherlock shook his head. “She never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never have left any hotel with her hair still looking… Oh.” Sherlock jumped up and ran to the door, throwing it open and beginning to strip off the plastic coveralls. 

John struggled to his feet, missing the cane already. Sherlock was already running down the stairs by the time John had managed to get himself out of the coveralls. 

“What is it?” yelled Lestrade down the stairs. “Sherlock, what is it?”

“I can guarantee you it’s a serial killer! They’re always harder, you have to wait for them to make a mistake!” Sherlock shouted on his way down, practically flying.

“What was the mistake?” Lestrade shouted again.

“Pink! Just find out who Rachel is!” Sherlock yelled back before running out into the rain, still carrying John’s cane.

John struggled out of his coveralls and tried to get down the stairs as fast as he could. He had to lean heavily on the handrail, and every time someone bumped him he almost lost his balance. “Sorry,” said the third person to accidentally push him on their way up. By the time he made it down and got outside, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. 

He walked out to the edge of the police tape, looking around. He couldn’t see Sherlock anywhere. 

“He’s gone,” a woman told him.

“Sherlock?” John asked, with little hope.

“Yeah, he just took off. He does that.”

“Is he coming back?” John asked, already knowing the answer.

“Didn’t look like it.

“Right.” John looked around, suddenly realizing he had no idea where Sherlock had taken him. “Sorry, where am I?” he asked the woman.

“Brixton.”

“Right. Er, d’you know where I could get a cab? It’s just, er, well, I’m missing my cane.”

She glanced down at his leg, then smiled. John felt a little sick when he saw the pity in her eyes. “Try the main road,” she suggested, lifting the police tape for him. 

John nodded and ducked under the tape.

“You’re not his friend,” the woman said. John looked back at her questioningly. “He doesn’t have friends. So, who are you?”

John smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Nobody,” he managed. “Just met him.”

“In that case, bit of advice: Stay away from that guy.” She saw the face John made. “You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one that put it there. He’s a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored.”

John found he didn’t have anything to say, and headed towards the road. In a manner of speaking, he _was_ that body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and suggestions are appreciated. If there's anything you want a warning for, feel free to ask.
> 
> The next few chapters are going to go by fast, since the first case is based closely on the first episode. After this one, I think I'm going to deviate from canon cases. I'd love to hear what you think!


	16. Car Chase

Luckily, John had had enough money in his pocket left over from earlier to pay the cabbie. It had finally stopped raining by the time he got back to the flat. It was locked, so he had to wake up Ms. Hudson to let him in. She told him it was no problem, but he still felt bad about it.

He waited for Sherlock. He turned on the laptop and sat down in the comfortable old yellow armchair. He typed Sherlock Holmes into the search bar. He laughed when he saw the first result. Of course, Sherlock Holmes had his own website. Scrolling through it, it sounded like utter bullshit. He wasn’t entirely sure if Sherlock knew that or not. John found he had missed a lot while recovering. Soon, he was lost in news articles and wiki pages, just wasting time.

Sherlock burst into the room early the next morning, still soaked and smelling distinctly foul. He swept a stack of papers off the coffee table in front of John and threw the stinking, wet case on the table. 

“Sherlock,” John greeted flatly. 

But Sherlock wasn’t listening. He opened up the suitcase and tore out its contents, shaking it to get the clothes out. He dug through it, but apparently didn’t find what he was looking for. He began pacing the room. 

“ _Jesus Christ_! Is that the suitcase?” John exclaimed, suddenly realizing what it was. “Aren’t you going to call the police?”

Sherlock scoffed, but otherwise didn’t answer. He walked into the kitchen and came out sans jacket, and with his shirt sleeves rolled up. He flopped down on the couch next to the door and let out an exaggerated sigh. Closing his eyes, Sherlock leaned back into the arm cushion. He didn’t quite fit on the couch. He was far too long for it. His legs bunched up at the end, and his arms spilled over the edge. John wasn’t sure if he was actually comfortable. It certainly didn’t look it.

With a sigh, John struggled up and over to the couch. Sherlock was clenching and unclenching his right fist over his chest while his left held tightly to his right arm. “What are you doing?” asked John.

“Nicotine patch. Helps me think.” He let go of his right arm and showed John the patches there. 

“Is that three patches?” asked John.

“It’s a three patch problem, John,” said Sherlock as though it were obvious.

“You didn’t happen to bring back my cane, did you?” John asked hopefully. 

Sherlock opened his eyes. “I must’ve left it in the car. It’s alright. You don’t need it anyways.”

“I don’t suppose you feel like apologizing for abandoning me either,” John said bitterly.

“You’re a grown man, John. You can find your own way home.”

“Is that why you’ve got me bugged, like a pet dog.”

Sherlock groaned. “It’s so I can find you when you have any complications. I thought your pacemaker had malfunctioned this morning.”

“No, I just had a bloody panic attack, you git!” John stomped away. “And we’re out of milk!”

John went and made himself a cuppa, but it didn’t taste any good because they didn’t have any milk and the sugar pot was full of some sort of green beetle, so he stayed the hell away from that. It was then that John realized Sherlock hadn’t told him about the suitcase. John tried to put it out of his mind and focus on his shitty tea. There was no way in hell he was going back out there just to ask Sherlock to brag about how smart he was.

“John! John, come here!” Sherlock suddenly shouted. 

John gritted his teeth. 

“I need your phone!” Sherlock yelled.

John slammed down his cup and stalked out to the living room. “I don’t have a phone!” John yelled.

“You don’t? Then I need my phone,” Sherlock said, still laying on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin.

“It’s in your coat, get it yourself,” John told him.

“I’ll tell you what’s missing from the suitcase.”

John stopped. “Damn it,” he hissed under his breath. He fished the phone out of Sherlock’s jacket and threw it at him. “Fine, what is it.”

“Think, John. What’s the one thing that everyone keeps on their person,” he urged, typing away on his phone.

“Uh, clothes? I dunno.”

“Come on John. What’s missing?”

John watched Sherlock typing away with a speed he envied. His eyes widened. “A phone,” he said.

Sherlock sat up. “Precisely. Quickly, get the case.”

John hobbled back to the coffee table in excitement. It was infectious. 

“Our killer’s first mistake was taking the suitcase,” Sherlock said as he slipped a piece of paper out of the luggage label.

“What was the second?” asked John.

Sherlock didn’t answer, instead typing in a number from the luggage label and texting. The phone began to ring. Sherlock grinned wide, in that way that made John think of the cold metal operating table in the basement.

“It’s only been a few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer…” Sherlock paused dramatically and waited for the phone to stop ringing, “…would panic.”

“We’ve got to call the police,” John said, a little frayed after everything he’d gone through today.

“No time. Four people have died,” Sherlock insisted, jumping up and grabbing his coat.

“So why are you telling me this?” John nearly screamed in exasperation.

“Ms. Hudson took my skull.”

John looked back at the empty space on the mantle. “You’re just a narcissistic bastard is why,” John protested. 

Sherlock threw open the door and ran out. John could hear his footsteps rush down the stairs, stop, and run back up. He popped his head in the doorway and asked, “Coming?”

Sherlock was absolutely mad. He withheld information from the police so he could chase down the killer himself. He brought a man back to life, for god’s sake. Probably because he was bored. John felt his hand twitch, aching for the familiar weight of a handgun. He remembered that, firing a gun. Firing a lot of guns. He remembered the adrenaline rush, the excitement of a life or death fight, and the heady rush after he came out the victor. 

“Right,” John said, running to grab his coat. Sherlock wasn’t standing in the doorway when he came back, so John opened that drawer in the writing desk Sherlock thought he didn’t know about, then ran after Sherlock. “Where are we going?” John asked when he caught up.

“The woman’s hair was messy, so we know she never made it to her hotel.”

“Jennifer Wilson,” interrupted John.

“What?”

“That’s her name. Jennifer Wilson.”

Sherlock brushed aside this fact. “Her umbrella was unused, so she wasn’t in the rain long, nor did she expect to be. It was unlikely that she was rushing between overhangs and stores, because she ended up so far from anything that could have provided shelter, therefore she must have been driven to the location. Our killer was driving, which is why she never used her umbrella, she was getting into a car. And, because of the text I just sent, he’s going to be driving around Lauriston Gardens.”

“What exactly did you send him?” John asked curiously. Sherlock handed him his phone.

what happened at lauriston gdns? I must have blacked out  
22 N Umberland st, please come

“I really think you should call the police and tell them all this,” John said again.

Sherlock scoffed. “I’ve got her suitcase back at the flat. Most of them already think I’m a murderer. How would that look? Really think, John.”

“Okay, so we find him. Then what? Huh? How do you even know he’s going to be there?” John asked. “He can’t be that stupid.”

“On the contrary, John. He’s just smart enough. I love the smart ones. They’re always desperate to get caught.”

“But why?”

Sherlock turned around to face him and threw his arms wide, “For the recognition. The applause!” Sherlock spun back around and kept walking. “He’s seeking the spotlight. Such is the fragility of genius.”

“It needs an audience,” John said. “Yeah I get that.” Sherlock didn’t notice the way John had said it while watching him. 

As they entered the heart of the city, the crowds grew larger and louder.

“This is his hunting ground. Where he abducts people in broad daylight, right in the middle of all these people.”

“Well, then. How’s he do it?” John asked. 

“Haven’t the foggiest. I’m feeling hungry. Are you feeling hungry?”

“You know, I think you like to act smarter than you are,” John decided aloud. 

“Nonsense, I’m a terrible actor,” Sherlock said opening the door to a small Italian place for John. The waiter near the door ushered them to a table next to the window, looking out at 22 North Umberland St. “Thank you, Billy,” Sherlock thanked the waiter and draped his coat over the back of his chair. The waiter nodded and took away the reserved sign.

“Come here often?” John joked. 

“I got the owner off a murder charge a while back. Speak of the devil…”

A large imposing man made his way over to their table with a winning smile. “Sherlock!” he exclaimed. They shook hands and Angelo told them, “On the house, for you and your date.”

“I’m not his date,” John said the same time Sherlock said, “Already married.”

John gave Sherlock a look that clearly said ‘later we will talk and I will consider not murdering you.’

“John, Angelo,” Sherlock said, gesturing between the two.

“This man cleared my name,” Angelo told John.

Sherlock scoffed. “Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade, at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking. I cleared it a bit.”

Angelo seemed to ignore Sherlock. “But for this man, I’d have gone to prison,” he told John seriously.

“You did go to prison,” Sherlock reminded him.

“I’ll get a candle for the table,” said Angelo. “It’s more romantic.”

“I’m _not_ his date!” John shouted indignantly.

Soon, John was digging into an especially good plate of four cheese ravioli while Sherlock sipped at his coffee pensively. His eyes never left the street. 

“Congratulations about the cane, by the way,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“Hm?”

“You were running, earlier. Without the cane.”

John blinked owlishly. He thought back and realized Sherlock was right. As soon as he’d grabbed his coat, he’d forgotten to even limp. “Your brother was right,” he said in surprise.

Sherlock’s neck whipped around and he glared daggers at John. “Of course I knew it was psychosomatic before Mycroft did. I was the one that had to drag you through physical therapy every day for months. I know everything about you.”

“Well, I don’t know much about you. Do you have any other family, any siblings?” John tried to start a conversation.

“No. Luckily it’s just Mycroft. I don’t think I’d be able to stand a world with another one of him.”

“It’s survivable,” John said, blandly.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, then went back to watching the street.

“Okay, how about any girlfriends. 

You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”

“Boyfriend, then?”

Sherlock glanced at John pointedly.

“Oh, right. Well besides me. Which mean it’s fine, if you do,” John stumbled through.

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock said testily.

John waited for a follow up to that, but none came. “So you’ve got a boyfriend then?” he tried again.

“No.”

“Right. Okay. You’re unattached. Like me. I think. Good.” 

They both took a moment to turn that over in their heads. Looking startled, Sherlock opened his mouth, “John, I think, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I don’t consider our marriage to be anything but a farce.”

“No,” John choked. He coughed, breathing water down the wrong tube. “No, that’s not what I was… I wasn’t… I’m just saying it’s fine. Whatever you do with… not… me… It’s fine.”

“Good. Thank you,” Sherlock acknowledged John’s awkward explanation. He considered John for a moment, then added, “It’s fine for you as well.”

“Oh, well, thanks. I think,” John replied. They were never going to dinner again and John was never going to try and have a real conversation ever again. He was going to go to a dark alleyway and die of embarrassment. It was then that he realized he may have insinuated that he was gay and made to speak, just to have Sherlock tell him to shut up.

“Taxi, across the street. It’s stopped. There’s a man in the backseat. He’s looking for someone, but not getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. _Is_ it clever? Why is it clever?”

John turned around to see. “That’s him?” he asked. 

“Don’t stare.”

“You’re staring.”

“We can’t _both_ stare.” Sherlock grabbed his coat and John followed him out the door, having left his coat on. 

As they got closer to the taxi the man in the back seat looked back at them and then faced forward. The taxi started to move and Sherlock took off running right across the street. A car screeched to a stop in front of him and the man driving it got out to yell at him, but Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. He didn’t have time to walk around the car, apparently, because he vaulted over the hood and kept running. John followed him over the hood and laughed when he hit the ground and kept running after Sherlock. Shouting an apology behind them as he ran.

“Good to see the physical therapy was worth it,” Sherlock yelled back at John smugly. 

The taxi turned left and Sherlock stopped. John kept running after it, too focused on chasing down the car to realize Sherlock wasn’t with him anymore. He laughed as he ran, exhilarated with his own legs burning and his chest heaving. For the first time in a very long time, he felt absolutely and utterly alive.

It threw him when Sherlock popped out of nowhere and ran in front of the taxi, stopping it. Sherlock had pulled out a badge and was talking to the passenger when John caught up with them, breathless. 

“Welcome to London,” Sherlock said to the man, smiling, before walking away. 

John watched him go, confused as to why. “Er, any problems, let us know,” John smiled and told the man before chasing after Sherlock.

“He wasn’t the murderer?” John asked. 

“No. He was too tan to live in London, not to mention his teeth. Definitely American. And his luggage tag read Los Angeles. He just arrived in London.” 

“Basically just a cab that happened to slow down,” said John

“Basically,” said Sherlock.

“Not the murderer.”

“No,” Sherlock said in exasperation, “Not the murderer.”

“Wrong country, good alibi.”

“As they go.”

“So what now?”

“Now, we wait.”

“For what, exactly.”

“For our murderer to make another mistake.”

“So, we’re waiting for someone to die?”

“Possibly.”

John grabbed the badge out of Sherlock’s hand. “Detective Inspector Lestrade?” he read. “Isn’t that the man from the crime scene?”

“Yeah. I pickpocket him when he’s annoying. You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat.”

“Ah,” John nodded. He looked at the badge again then started giggling. 

“What?”

“Nothing, just: ‘Welcome to London.’” John and Sherlock laughed.

Behind them, Sherlock noticed a police officer had started talking to the man in the stopped taxi in the middle of the highway. “Now that you’ve got your legs back,” he asked John, “fancy a race?”

“Ready when you are,” John grinned. The both of them made it back to the flat in record time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated, and if there is anything in particular you want a warning for, feel free to ask.


	17. Taxi for Mr. 'olmes

John and Sherlock laughed together, breathless after their race.

“That was… the most… ridiculous… thing I’ve ever… done,” John gasped.

“And you… invaded… Afghanistan,” Sherlock replied, equally breathless.

John laughed. “That wasn’t… just me.”

Sherlock chuckled. Just then, Ms. Hudson came out of her flat, looking harried. “Sherlock, what have you done?” she asked, wringing her hands.

“Ms. Hudson?” Sherlock asked.

“Upstairs,” was all she said.

Sherlock and John rushed upstairs to the flat. Inside was Detective Inspector Lestrade, sitting casually in the armchair and facing the door, just waiting for them to enter. John cursed whatever twist of fate that left him in the middle of a drama queen club. Police officers had swarmed the flat, going through all of Sherlock’s possessions.

Sherlock stormed into the room. “What are you doing,” he roared at Lestrade who stood to face him.

“I figured you’d find the case. I’m not stupid. I also knew you weren’t going to just hand it over,” he said smugly.

“You can’t just break into my flat,” Sherlock complained.

“And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Then what’s this,” Sherlock gestured at the police officers.

Lestrade smiled his own shit eating grin. “It’s a drugs bust.”

“Seriously, this guy?” John laughed. “A junkie? Have you met him?”

“John…” Sherlock hissed.

“You could search this flat all day and not find anything.”

“John, shut up,” Sherlock hissed a little louder.

“What?” asked John, startled.

“John, you probably want to shut up now,” Sherlock hissed at him through gritted teeth.

Sherlock and John stared at each other. “ _No_ ,” said John disbelieving. “But you… No, I mean…”

“What?” Sherlock asked angrily.

“ _You_?” John asked incredulously.

“Just shut up, John,” Sherlock said.

“Congratulations on tying the knot, by the way,” Lestrade interjected. The flat full of police officers cheered in unison. It was almost like they had planned that. John was surrounded by melodramatic assholes. “And John, you’re a better man than I could ever be. Call me if you ever need a character witness for your divorce.”

“I’m not your dog,” Sherlock growled at Lestrade.

“That would be Anderson,” said Lestrade, smiling.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t.” Anderson walked out of the kitchen, an unnatural skip in his step for someone John had only seen angry. “Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?”

“Me? I volunteered,” he smiled nastily. "You know, I didn't peg you for being into the live ones."

Sherlock was almost shaking with rage.

“They _all_ volunteered, actually,” Lestrade told him. “They not, strictly speaking, on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.”

The woman John had spoken to earlier at the crime scene walked out of the kitchen as well, holding a jar of gelatinous orbs in yellow fluid. John had been hoping that if he didn’t touch it or stare at it too long, then it would magically turn into a jar of preserves. Maybe marmalade.

“Are these human eyes?” she asked, repulsed.

“Put that back!” Sherlock yelled.

“They were in the _microwave_!” she shouted back.

“It’s an experiment!” Sherlock yelled.

“Keep looking, Donovan,” Lestrade told her. He turned to Sherlock and said, “Or you could work _with_ us, properly, and I’ll stand them down.”

Sherlock started pacing, squeezing his arm where the nicotine patches had been earlier. “This is childish,” he protested.

"Funny, I could swear I was dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I’m letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?” Lestrade asked him.

“So-so that’s what this all is? An attempt to bully me into doing whatever you want?” Sherlock sounded like he was throwing a tantrum.

“It may be a pretend drugs bust, but it’s real if we find anything,” Lestrade said instead.

“I. Am. Clean,” Sherlock raised his voice.

“But is your flat? All of it?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer and John thought back to the gun he’d found in an unlocked drawer while he was poking around a few days ago. That was when he wasn’t looking for anything in particular.

Lestrade sighed. “We’ve found Rachel.”

Sherlock finally relented. “Fine, then who is she?”

“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

“Who?”

“The victim,” John whispered.

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded. “You need to bring in Rachel. You need to question her. __I__ need to question her.”

“That’ll be a bit of a problem. She’s dead,” Lestrade informed him.

Sherlock perked up, “Excellent!” Beside him, John jumped.

“How, when and why?” Sherlock demanded. “Is there a connection? There has to be.”

“Well, I doubt it, since she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago,” Lestrade said.

John grimaced in sympathy. Sherlock frowned in confusion. “No, that’s... that’s not right. That doesn’t make sense. Why would she do that?” Sherlock mussed aloud.

“You mean why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?” Anderson asked sarcastically. “Sociopath; I’m seeing it now.”

“She didn’t just think about her daughter. She gouged her name into the floor with her fingernails until her nails splintered and her fingers bled. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt,” Sherlock said louder, as though it would drown out Anderson. He started pacing, gears whirring inside his head as he struggled to find the connection.

“The victims all took the poison themselves,” John spoke. “He doesn’t force it down their throats, but maybe he still makes them take it. Well, maybe he... I dunno, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow,” John offered.

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to John. “No, that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?” The room fell silent, and the look on John’s face made Sherlock hesitate. He looked around at the rest of the room, all horrified stares. “Not good?” he asked.

John glanced at the others in the room. “Bit not good, yeah.”

Sherlock nodded and looked back at John. “If you were dying... if you’d been murdered, in your very last few seconds what would you say?” he asked, trying to grasp at just what was eluding him.

It wasn’t a war zone. It was a hospital, eerily white and pristine. It smelled of medical disinfectant and death. So much death. He was on the other side of the knife. No time for anesthetics, he’d heard. We’re losing him, he’s heard. The fluorescent light stared back at him from its metal cage in the ceiling and he cried. He sobbed hysterically. It wasn’t the pain that scarred him now. It was death. He was facing death now, and he was scarred. With his last breath, he screamed…

“Please, God, let me live,” John said in a cold monotone.

Sherlock snorted. “Use your imagination, John.”

“Don’t have to,” said John, without emotion.

That stopped Sherlock long enough for him to recognize how pale John had gone. He was leaning against the wall again, as if his leg was troubling him. “But if you were clever,” he said instead. “Really, really clever. Jennifer…”

“Wilson,” John provided.

“…Wilson was clever. She planted her phone on the killer when she realized she was going to die. She gave us a clue. She… Oh.” Sherlock smiled at John. “She was clever. Do you see? She _planted_ her phone on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer.” Sherlock dove into a box of things the drugs bust team had gathered, things they’d be able to take, provided they found drugs. He resurfaced with his laptop.

“But how?” asked Lestrade.

“How?” Sherlock asked disbelievingly. “The clue! Rachel!” When all that returned was a sea of blank faces, Sherlock laughed. “Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel isn’t a name. It’s a password. John, do you still have the luggage tag?”

John dug it out of his trouser pocket and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock opened up his laptop and started typing furiously. “Assuming she had a smart phone, which most people do, especially ones that care as much about appearances as she did, we can track it. She gave us the password to her account.” He entered in the password and hit enter. “And according to this, the phone is…”

John leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder. He held his breath as the page loaded agonizingly slow. “221 Baker Street?” he read in confusion.

“No, that’s not right,” Sherlock muttered.

Ms. Hudson inched into the room, looking warily at all the uniformed officers. “Oh dear. Such a mess. What are they looking for?” she asked John.

"Engagement party," Sherlock said sarcastically.

“It’s a drugs bust,” John corrected.

She looked alarmed. “But they’re just herbal soothers for my hip,” she whispered to him anxiously.

“Maybe it fell out when you brought the suitcase back,” Lestrade suggested to Sherlock. “You could have just missed it.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Me? I don’t just miss things.”

“You said the murderer had the phone, right? Doesn’t that make you the killer?” Anderson accused loudly.

“Anderson, don’t talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street,” Sherlock condescended.

“He’s got a point, though. How d’you know the killer’s got the phone?” Lestrade asked.

“We know he’s got it,” confirmed John. “We texted the killer and he called back.”

Lestrade considered John, then turned to address the police officers, “We’re looking for a mobile phone here. It belonged to the victim.”

“Sherlock,” Ms. Hudson tried to slide into the conversation. “I just came up to tell you not to keep your taxi waiting.”

“I didn’t order a taxi,” Sherlock snapped at her. He slumped in his seat, staring at the computer screen as though it would tell him it’s secrets. It didn’t make any sense. He was never wrong. It had to be the computer program.

“What about your taxi?” Ms. Hudson asked him.

“Shut up!” Sherlock roared, standing. “Everybody, shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off,” he ordered and started pacing.

“What?” asked Anderson. “My face?! Why just me?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. That’s enough Sherlock. You made a mistake. It happens.” He turned to the rest of the room. “Alright, there’s nothing here. Let’s pack up and move out.”

John patted Sherlock on the back when he finally came to a stop. “I’ll refresh the page. See if that does anything.”

“Hmm,” hummed Sherlock, not really paying attention. His eyes were darting around the room. It couldn’t be anyone here, because the phone didn’t ring and no one had remotely suspicious body language. He glanced at his phone, next to the computer. It was still ringing.

“I’m going to check the hallway,” he told John abruptly and walked out.

“He’s making that poor cabbie wait,” Ms. Hudson muttered and followed him out.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock listened carefully after Ms. Hudson left him alone. It was silent. He walked the length of the hall. Step by careful step, he paused to listen. It was at the door that he finally heard something. Sherlock smiled.

He opened the door and looked outside. The cabbie leaned against his taxi, patiently waiting for Sherlock. A bright pink phone peeking out of his pocket sang quietly. When he saw Sherlock, he took out the phone and tapped the screen to silence it. He was a kind looking old man. His hair was grey and thin under his cap and he wore plenty of layers to keep warm. A handmade knit scarf was wrapped around his neck and he smiled warm and unassuming at Sherlock. “Taxi for Sherlock ‘olmes.”

“How do you know my name?” asked Sherlock.

“Your friend, the blond one, he called you Sherlock the o’er day. Not a terribly common name. It was easy ‘nough to find you,” the man explained, his voice deep and gentle. He could have just been another person, maybe a grandparent, trying to make a living. He seemed too kindly to be what Sherlock knew he was.

“Yesterday,” Sherlock said, realizing, “it was you, not your passenger. You were driving the cab yesterday.”

“See?” he shrugged. “No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ’ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.” He almost sounded as though he were talking about lawn mowers, not human lives, with his slow, steady way of speaking.

“Is that a confession?” Sherlock asked.

“Sure. An’ if you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.” Sherlock stared at him, confused. “Or…”

“Or what?” Sherlock asked.

“Or you lemme take you fer a ride,” he offered.

Sherlock stepped closer to him, staring the man down. “And why would I do that?”

The man crossed his arms and shifted, getting comfortable. “See, Mr. ‘olmes, I looked you up. And I know you’re the kind o’ man that appreciates being smart. Only, how smart would you be if you don’t know how I did it? Eh? Because I didn’t lay a hand on those people, Mr. ‘olmes. I just talked to ‘em, and they killed themselves. An’ if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing.” He leaned forward into Sherlock’s face, showing his crooked teeth. “I will never tell you what I said,” he threatened in a whisper.

Sherlock stepped back. “No-one else will die if I do. I believe that’s the goal.” He turned to walk away.

“In my time, I’ve got to meet a lot of folks, and they isn’t all as different as they want you to think. Even you, you’ve got a doppelganger out there somewhere. ‘E may not look much like you, but ‘e thinks just like you do.”

Sherlock stopped cold. He turned back around. “Is that an insult or a challenge?” he asked, nearly laughing. “Either way it’s wholly unfounded. If you’ve researched me, then you should know just who you’re dealing with.”

“Well, sure.” The man nodded in agreement. “I know you. And I know men just like yer. That’s why I know you’re going to get in the cab.”

Sherlock put a foot toward the car and jerked back, changing his mind back and forth. On one hand, he was loathe to do exactly what this man expected and wanted him to do, but on the other…” Sherlock strode past the cabbie and got in the car.

The cabbie got in the driver’s seat and adjusted his mirror. “Remember, Mr. ‘olmes, I’m just gonna talk to yer, and then you’re gonna kill yourself.” And then he drove off.

 

* * *

 

“Oi, the freak just drove off in a cab,” Donovan announced, looking out the window.

“What?” John asked, looking up from the computer screen that still read 221 Baker Street.

“I told you,” she said, “he does that.”

Lestrade caught John before leaving. “Why did he do that? Why did he leave?’

John shrugged. “You know him better than I do.”

Lestrade chuckled. “No. I’ve known him for five years, but I’m just as clueless as you are.”

“So why put up with him?” John asked.

Lestrade sighed heavily. “I’m desperate.” He watched John closely. “How are you holding up, by the way. We kind of… found your papers.”

John went red. “Oh, um… I- I’m fine.”

Lestrade grabbed John’s shoulder. “Look, if you need out, just give us a call. We’ll understand.”

“No, no. It-It’s fine. Everything’s fine,” John stuttered.

Lestrade looked like he didn’t believe a word of it, but he sighed rubbed a hand over his face. “I lied about why I put up with him. It’s not because I’m desperate,” he admitted. “It’s because Sherlock Holmes, as much as he'd have you think otherwise, is a good man. And I think, one day, if we’re very, _very_ lucky, he might even be a great one.” With that he left, and John had something new to turn over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated! I've got about two more chapters lined up that just need editing before I'll have to start planning the next bit. Still up in the air about what I should do next. I'm thinking about introducing someone, but it feels a little soon... hmm.


	18. Cleverer Than Thou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Dude dies, but like, what were you expecting

Sherlock watched the streetlights pass by overhead. He knew exactly where he was, and he intended to keep it that way. The man had on a generic talk show on the radio. Something about another scandal. He could hardly be bothered. “Tell me more about the money,” Sherlock said.

The man glanced in the mirror at Sherlock. He picked up a photograph from the dashboard and reached back, handing it to Sherlock who took the photograph and studied the children. “Are they yours?” he asked.

The man chuckled. “They’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Sherlock fingered the uneven edge of the photograph. One side had been cut. A woman’s disembodied arm could be seen on the boy’s knee. “What happened?” Sherlock asked.

“Me and their mum. We didn’t quite see eye to eye. Now I don’t get to see them much, but I’m still their father, even if they don’t know my face anymore. I’ve still got to provide for them. I _want_ to. They deserve a good life.”

“The money is for them?” Sherlock asked.

“A good education costs a small fortune nowadays, an’ the last time I saw them, my little girl had her heart set on goin’ abroad. She’s going to be a translator,” he said, proud.

“What about the boy?”

He laughed. “A dinosaur.”

“I’m sure that costs a deal more than university, but it still seems…” he pondered aloud, “unrealistic. You want money, so you go on a killing spree? You’re a decently smart man. You understand the risks. So why take such huge ones? Mrs. Hudson will remember your face, and you took me away under the nose of an entire police force. Why…?”

“Mr. ‘olmes,” he interrupted, “you talk too much.”

They spent the rest of the ride in silence.

The cab stopped in a dark, empty parking lot. It was certainly out of the way. Sherlock read the sign. “Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?” Sherlock asked.

The cabbie pulled out his keys, the lights around them dying as the night made itself known. “It’s open; nobody’s in. The nice thing about being a cabbie: you know a nice quiet spot for a murder.”

“So, what now?” Sherlock asked. “You just walk your victims in? How?”

Jeff turned around a cocked a gun in Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, dull,”

“Don’t worry, it gets better.”

“You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint.”

Jeff put away the gun. “Shows what you know. But I don’t need a gun with you, Mr. ‘olmes. You’ll just follow me right in.” He got out of the cab, and Sherlock grimaced at himself for doing exactly what the cabbie had predicted, and followed him inside.

 

* * *

  


When the rest of the police had cleared out, John slumped down in a chair and finally started to breathe easy again. He was overwhelmed. Between the car chase and the drugs bust and everything else that had happened over just the last week, he was actually missing the solitary quiet of the basement. John shook away the thought violently. There was no way in hell he was ever going back there.

The laptop chirped and John turned around to look at it. It chirped again and he got up to investigate. His eyes widened when he saw the new location. All at once it crashed together in his head. The killer, the house, the phone, the cab. Sherlock had taken a cab. And the cab had been the only new thing at 221 Baker Street. John grabbed the laptop and tucked it under his arm before running out the door. He didn’t have time to call the police. He just hoped Sherlock hadn’t done anything stupid yet.

 

* * *

  


Jeff led Sherlock into an empty room and they sat down across from each other. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, relaxed, and watched Jeff, who smiled at him disarmingly.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small bottle with a single pill inside. He placed the bottle on the table with a small clink and sat back, still smiling at Sherlock, who frowned. Jeff looked like he wanted to laugh. “Ooh, I like this bit. ’Cause you don’t get it yet, do yer? But you’re about to. I just have to do this,” he said and pulled out an identical bottle, placing it next to the first. “You weren’t expecting that, were yer?”

Sherlock schooled his expression. “Okay, two bottles. Explain.”

“There’s a good bottle and a bad bottle,” said Jeff. “You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die.”

Sherlock picked up the bottle on the right and peered at the pill inside. “Both bottles are, of course, identical,” he observed.

“In every way,” agreed Jeff.

Sherlock put the bottle back down next to the other. “And only you know which is which.”

“Course,” said Jeff. “Wouldn’t be a game if you knew. You’re the one who chooses.”

Sherlock snorted. “Why should I? I’ve got nothing to go on. What’s in it for me?”

Jeff pulled the gun back out again, putting the barrel directly in Sherlock’s face. Sherlock reached up and took the gun from Jeff, who relinquished, letting him take it without a fight. Sherlock aimed it at Jeff and pulled the trigger. A small fire flickered to life at the end of it. “A fake.”

Jeff shrugged. “They don’t know that.” Sherlock gave him back the gun and Jeff put it back in his pocket. “I give ‘em a choice. Either I use my gun, or they choose a bottle.” He leaned in close and told Sherlock, excitedly, “I ’aven’t told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one – and then, together, we take our medicine.”

Sherlock glanced at him, then the bottles and sighed. “This is what you did to the rest of them? You gave them this same choice?” he asked.

Jeff nodded. “Didn’t expect that, did you, Mr. ‘olmes.”

“No, I didn’t. I expected a game. This isn’t a game, it’s mere chance.”

“Oh, no. It’s not chance. I’ve played this game four times, and here I am. Still breathing. That isn’t chance Mr. ‘olmes. It’s like a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this…” Jeff pushed the bottle on the left towards Sherlock, “is my move.” He settled back in his seat and smiled. “What will yours be, Mr. ‘olmes.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and watched Jeff’s face in silence.

“Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one,” Jeff told him. He licked his lips in anticipation.

Sherlock didn’t let his eyes leave Jeff’s face. “It’s still just chance.”

“You’re not playin’ the numbers, you’re playin’ me,” he said patiently. “Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff?”

“Fifty-fifty chance,” Sherlock said.

“Four people in a row?” he asked.

”Luck.”

“I know ’ow people think. I know ’ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my ’ead.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“You’re no different from all the others. You’re just like ‘eryone else.” He chuckled. “Or maybe God just loves me.”

 

* * *

  


John got out of the cab, throwing a handful of money at the cabbie on his way out of the car. He shut the laptop and ran towards the building on the right. He didn’t have time to deliberate over which building Sherlock was in. He could only hope for the best.

 

* * *

  


Sherlock picked up the bottle Jeff had pushed towards him and eyed his face, still expressionless other than that unflinching smile. “I’d like to continue our conversation from earlier,” Sherlock said rolling the small bottle back and forth in his hand.

“I already told you, you talk too much.”

“Indulge a dying man, then,” Sherlock countered. “If you’re so sure to win, then why not tell me why? You’ve got nothing to lose.”

Jeff sighed and picked up the other bottle. “Here and now. We’re even, you an’ me.”

“You’re dying?” Sherlock asked.

Jeff nodded and taped the side of his head, now wearing a sad smile. “Aneurism. Any breath could be my last.”

“This is your suicide, then,” Sherlock concluded.

“Until I die, everything I do is for my children.”

“That’s quite possibly the worst excuse I’ve heard for killing four people,” Sherlock condescended.

“Oh, then you’ve heard more?”

Sherlock placed the bottle back on the table and stood. “I have actually, and I intend to hear more. I’ve already called the police and they will be here to pick you up shortly. Enjoy the rest of your life behind bars, however short that may be.” Sherlock turned to go.

“Have you got it figured out, then?” Jeff asked.

“Child’s play.”

“Prove it.” Jeff grinned.

Sherlock paused. “I don’t need to prove anything to you. I’ve already got it all figured out.”

“And yet, here you are. Waiting for me to tell you how clever you are. But I’m not going to do that. Maybe I’ll die knowing that I beat you, and it’ll haunt you for the rest of your life. Maybe I’ll die knowing that I lost, but you’ll never know. Can you live with that? Never knowing who was smarter? Me? Or you?”

Sherlock stalked back to the table and angrily picked up the bottle he had left. He unscrewed the lid and dumped out the pill. Jeff stood and did the same. They both held the pills to their lips. “May the best man win,” Jeff said with a smile.

 

* * *

  


John raced through the empty corridors, shouting Sherlock’s name. “God _fucking_ damnit, Sherlock. Where are you?” he hissed under his breath. He leaned against a door frame and panted. He could feel his lungs spasming, and not in a good way. He couldn’t take much more of this, not after all he’d been through today.

Just then he looked through the window, across to the other building and caught sight of Sherlock, a pill to his lips. Without thinking, John threw the laptop onto a nearby desk and pulled out the gun that had been heavy in his pocket all day. He released the safety and aimed, his motions more fluid than he’d known since he woke up in that damn hellhole. Muscle memory he couldn’t understand pulled the other man next to Sherlock in front of the barrel of his gun. He didn’t even think, he just fired, then he grabbed the laptop and ran.

 

* * *

  


Glass exploded around them and Sherlock dropped the pill in surprise. Jeff fell to the floor, choking on blood and holding his throat as it spurted arcs of red.

Sherlock dropped down beside him and demanded, “Was I right? Was I right!?”

Jeff, with his last breath, smiled a red stained grimace and laughed in Sherlock’s face. Blood spattered his skin and Sherlock watched the last breath leave Jeff’s body, his soul sighing as it released. Sherlock shook him angrily. “Was I right!? Did I choose the right pill!?” Sherlock shouted. But Jeff was gone. “No… No, no, no, no. NO!” Sherlock grabbed Jeff’s body by the lapels and slammed his head back into the concrete floors again and again and again. “ _NO_!” he screamed.

Jeff’s pill fell out of his mouth as Sherlock shook him. Lestrade and a group of similarly dressed officers burst into the room, all wearing bullet proof vests and helmets.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” somebody said.

“I told you,” said Donovan. “He really did it.”

“Sherlock?” Lestrade said uncertainly. “Sherlock what happened?”

Sherlock grabbed the pill that had fallen out of Jeff’s mouth, and put it in his pocket, without letting the police see. He stood and wiped the blood off his face. “Somebody killed our killer,” he said, seeming only mildly disgruntled. He moved to inspect the bullet hole in the window as Lestrade ordered somebody to take his statement and someone else gave Sherlock an orange shock blanket to drape over his shoulders, which he used to clean the blood off his hands and face and then tossed away.

Sherlock walked out of the building with Lestrade, another blanket in his arms, which he handed off to Anderson, who was not happy about it. A paramedic came over to them and put another orange blanket on Sherlock’s shoulders before walking away to take care of the body inside.

“Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me,” Sherlock complained.

“It’s for shock,” said Lestrade.

“I’m not in shock.”

“Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs.” Lestrade grinned and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Still no sign of the shooter?” asked Sherlock.

“No, they cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but-” Lestrade shrugged, “-got nothing to go on.  
Sherlock chucked cockily. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Alright, gimme.”

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon; that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman. You’re looking for a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly, he’s acclimatized to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man, probably with a history of military service…” Just then, Sherlock caught sight of John, standing behind the police tape with Sherlock’s laptop tucked under his arm. “…and nerves of steel…” Sherlock trailed off. “Actually, you know what? Ignore me.”

“Sorry?” Lestrade asked, surprised.

“Ignore all of that. It’s just the, er, the shock talking.”

“The shock?” he asked incredulously. “Where’re you going?”

“Home with my husband,” Sherlock said over his shoulder as he walked away.

“What for?”

“What do you think?”

“But I’ve still got questions for you,” Lestrade protested.

Sherlock turned around, irritated. “What now? I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket!” He shook the orange blanket for emphasis.

“Sherlock!” Sherlock just ignored him and kept walking towards John. Lestrade sighed and rubbed his face. “Fine, but we’re bringing you in tomorrow to finish this!” he shouted before leaving Sherlock alone.

Sherlock pulled the blanket off his shoulders and bundled it up, handing it John as he reached him. “We got a new blanket. The paramedics were kind enough to let me take it.”

“Um, Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it? Dreadful,” said John, not entirely convincing.

Sherlock watching him for a moment, then looked away and said, quietly, “Good shot.”

John put on a face that tried and absolutely failed to look innocent. He cleared his throat and looked away. “Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.”

Sherlock looked at John curiously. “Are you all right?” he asked John.

“Yes, of course I’m all right.”

“Then we need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.”

John cleared his throat and looked around nervously. “ _Are_ you all right?” asked Sherlock again.

“Yes, I…”

“You just killed a man.”

John snorted. “Wasn’t the first. I was a soldier. I killed people.”

“I thought you were a doctor?”

“I had bad days.”

Sherlock chuckled and started to walk away. John followed and started giggling, which only made Sherlock laugh harder.

“Stop! Stop, we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene! Stop it!” John chided him, still giggling.

Once John got his laughter under control he asked Sherlock something he’d been meaning to bring up. “You were gonna take that damned pill, weren’t you?”

“Course I wasn’t,” Sherlock lied. “Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”

“No, you didn’t,” John called his bluff. “It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever,” John accused.

“Why would I do that?” asked Sherlock.

“Because you’re an idiot.”

Sherlock let out a burst of laughter. “Fine, then. You were right. I didn’t know you’d come. But I should have expected it. You always manage to surprise me, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated, and if there is anything in particular you want a warning for, feel free to ask.


End file.
